Good and Proper
by katierosefun
Summary: Tony Stark didn't expect someone to use the weapons of Stark Industry to explode parts of New York City. He also didn't expect to take the pickpocket Peter Parker under his wing, either, so it seemed that this year would be an interesting one. [19th century AU] *Will be updated weekly.
1. ONE

_Hello, everyone! Katierosefun aka Caroline here! I had this idea of a nineteenth-century-esque story about Tony and Peter for the longest time, so I finally got down to business and started planning out/writing the story. In my head, this story takes place some time in the late nineteenth century New York City, but there might be some slight historical inaccuracies here and there (aka the exact timeline of when certain things were invented and etc), so I hope you all will be gentle with me regarding such details._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**ONE. **

According to Tony Stark's pocket watch, Ms. Pepper Potts would be most surely annoyed at how he was once again coming back home after a meeting gone later than normal. And according to the time on Tony's pocket watch—6:32 exactly—and the smell on his clothes now, Pepper would almost most surely be annoyed at how long he had decided to stay at the meeting.

The stench of burning coal and metal should not have clung onto a gentleman such as Tony Stark as much as it did now, but the man prided himself somewhat in the possession of such a scent, even _if _Pepper would most undoubtedly complain later. Tony supposed, as he walked down the finer streets of New York City, the other smells—cigarettes, freshly baked bread, shoe polish, half-wilted flowers—would wash away the smell of Stark Industries. At the same time, however, Tony had realized that the smell was at least the sign of someone who cared about where the roots of a business were going. Now, of course, Tony spent more of his hours in his own office and in his own workshop, but after hearing the troubling news of decreasing morale all across the greatest industries of America, he had decided that an appearance from himself to his own workers would remind everyone what exactly Stark Industries was working towards.

Which was exactly why Tony also had to dismiss several of his workers—some of whom, Tony shuddered to think of now, most certainly hadn't been pleased with the news. Some men had simply sulked out of the office, while others—particularly one—had merely stilled before walking out. Such exits were particularly troubling for Tony, especially seeing that most of the men Tony had let go of had never been such quiet men before.

A chill ran up Tony's spine at the faces of some of those he dismissed earlier today: the suddenly paled faces, the gradual pinking and reddening of the cheeks, widened, frenzied eyes that made Tony think of wild animals.

Tony reached for his watch, trying to erase the image of the last few hours with the familiar ease of something solid in his hand. The watch read that it was closer to seven now. Tony dropped the watch back into his pocket and quickened his step. Pepper would surely be annoyed now—Tony usually came back home at closer to half past six.

Perhaps it was because of this very distraction of potential animalistic engineers and an annoyed Ms. Potts that caused Tony to not pay as close attention to his surroundings as usual, because just as he rounded the corner, Tony felt something bump against his side.

"Sorry, sir," a small voice said. Tony peered down and noticed several things at once: first, a head of curls the same color of the deep wood paneling back at his office. Second, the pale face of a boy whose cheeks were slightly pinched and smudged as most of the members of the younger populace tended to be. And third, a set of eyes startlingly wide and alert in the midst of weary, shivering pedestrians. But before Tony could say anything, the boy repeated "sorry" before whirling around on his heel and walking away. In a flash, the boy's curls bobbed in the sea of ducked heads and cap-wearing newspaper boys before disappearing altogether.

Tony huffed out a breath before continuing on his way. The boy had looked like one of those who worked in the factories, but that was far away. How he could have somehow slipped into the wealthier districts of New York without being pulled away or scolded by someone was both a mystery and, as Tony smiled to himself, a feat in itself. The boy would probably rush back home in no time at all—unlike Tony, who was fairly certain he had lost some more time in that one collision.

Tony reached for his watch once more. His fingers passed through cloth, through a few bits and bobs he might have forgotten to take out of his pockets—but not the cold metal of the watch.

Tony stopped in his tracks. Frowning to himself, he shoved his hand in his coat pocket again, his fingers searching for the timepiece, but yet again, his hand only came back up with empty air. Tony looked down into his pocket, the cold slowly registering to him only now. He had only just been holding onto his watch a few moments ago.

Tony turned in his spot on the street, his eyes skipping over the other pedestrians. A newspaper boy slowly trudged past him, and Tony caught a glimpse of the boy's small frame, which looked almost entirely weighed down by the papers he still carried. For a moment, the newspaper boy's eyes flitted up to Tony, and this time, a set of blue eyes clouded by lack of sleep and energy met Tony's. Lack of sleep and energy—something normal amongst people living in this city.

But that boy from before, Tony mused as the newspaper boy wobbled down the street, hadn't looked at all tired. That boy, despite his frame and his pinched face, had moved so fast through the people. Faster than the average city boy.

_Of course, _Tony thought, and he hurried down the street. No boy ever looked that alert unless he had something to hide.

The boy couldn't be far. Tony passed slouching men and trudging children and slumping women, but his eyes skipped over their lifeless faces and sped ahead to the small spaces in between people those wide eyes that somehow seemed to become more mischievous in Tony's mind with each passing second. Tony's stride quickened into a fast walk, and as he rounded another corner, that fast walk quickened into a light jog until people slowly started to part as Tony burst through crowds.

"What's gotten you so worked up?" a voice drawled from Tony's side.

Tony's heart stuttered at the sudden call, but when he turned, he could only scowl at the redheaded woman leaning against the building next to him.

"Romanoff," Tony said.

"I don't think I've seen you run that fast since Pepper threatened to burn your notes," Natasha Romanoff said, the corner of her lips twitching into what could have either been a smile or a smirk. Even after knowing the detective for nearly eight years, Tony couldn't always tell whether she was ready to attack or not. Then again, he supposed, Natasha would probably be flattered if Tony ever told her that—which he wouldn't, because he had the feeling Natasha Romanoff already knew very well of her own capabilities. Crossing her arms now, Natasha asked, "Is that why you're running now?"

"No," Tony muttered. He turned back to the front, but there was still no sign of that damn boy.

"Are you supposed to meet someone?" Natasha asked.

"I wish," Tony said. He turned to Natasha. "I've been pickpocketed."

"Pickpocketed?" Natasha repeated, arching one auburn eyebrow. "The great, untouchable Anthony Stark—pickpocketed by some common thief?"

"He was fast," Tony muttered.

Natasha waved a gloved hand—new gloves, too, Tony noticed. Black leather. Probably expensive, given the type of clients Natasha had. "I'm sure you won't miss whatever he took," she said. "You've got enough bills in your bank to replace whatever you lost, I'm sure."

Tony's chest tightened. "He took the pocket watch."

At that, all traces of humor faded from Natasha's face, which did little to ease the pain in Tony's chest. She grimaced and, looking Tony up and down, asked, "Are you going to tell Pepper?"

"If I find the thief before going home, then hopefully, I won't have to," Tony answered. He pushed a hand up to his hair. If only he had paid closer attention! Dropping his hand from his hair, Tony looked to Natasha. "And what are you doing here, lurking in the corners? Last I checked, I thought you were still in London on another investigation."

"Are you saying you missed me?" Natasha asked, and though she still didn't smile, Tony relaxed to find that her tone had at least lightened enough to humor the sudden diversion in conversation.

"My dear Detective Romanoff," Tony only said, "you know very well I don't miss people. Why are you back now?"

"My dear Mr. Stark," Natasha replied, mimicking Tony's tone, "you know very well that I keep my business confidential. As for the case in London, that ended a while ago." She shook her head, a few strands of her hair only swaying slightly with the movement. "Just another bored member of the aristocracy seeing trouble when there was none." She tilted her head at Tony. "And to think, I thought now would be a good time to pay a friend of mine a surprise visit. I didn't think the surprise visit would start with a sudden crime."

Tony rolled his eyes up at the dark skies. After a moment, he muttered, "I did miss you. New York City is somehow quieter without you."

Now Tony could hear Natasha's smile in her voice as she replied, "That's what I like to hear." Then, she asked, "So who was this thief? Did you get a good look at him before he went off with the pocket watch?"

Tony looked to Natasha. "He had dark hair," he said. "And dark eyes. On the taller, thinner side. One of the boys probably from the factories."

Natasha pressed her lips together. "A boy from the factories?" she asked. "All the way here?"

"Exactly what I was thinking," Tony muttered, starting down the sidewalk. "I don't know how he got up to this part of the city without at least a few police officers chasing him away."

"He must be quick, then," Natasha murmured. "Dark eyes, you said?"

"Brown," Tony replied. "He knew what he was doing."

Natasha went quiet. Then, after a moment, she said quietly, "There are tons of pickpockets in New York, Tony."

"But there's only one pickpocket who can somehow get away with stealing from me," Tony replied, craning his neck to look over the shoulders and heads of the pedestrians around him. His mind flashed back to the boy's small face again, which had somehow grown increasingly elfish in Tony's thoughts as he walked past other sleepy-eyed newspaper boys. "And there's only one pickpocket who can somehow get away with making it all the way up here without getting caught." He turned to Natasha. "Think," he said. "Did you ever run into someone like the boy I'm describing?"

Natasha pressed her lips together. "Someone who could get all the way up here…" Her voice drifted. She met Tony's eyes and then, after a beat of silence, she said, "A few months ago, there were some reports of some of the wealthier folk missing small things. A pair of earrings. A cufflink here and there. But there was never anything too big. Only recently, someone was able to catch a glimpse of him—but only as he was leaving."

"And?" Tony pressed.

Natasha stopped, forcing Tony to stop along with her. "And," she said, looking up at Tony, "he apparently could climb the walls. Like a spider."

Tony frowned. He thought of the boy again, how alert he seemed and how lithe his movements were as he disappeared into the crowd. He could very well picture the boy running away easily, but to climb walls? "How?" he asked at last.

"Some learned skill," Natasha replied, though she sounded more like she was wondering out loud rather than giving an actual answer. "If one was strong or handy enough, I would imagine he could get up practically vertical surfaces just fine."

"Can you do that?" Tony asked.

Natasha cast Tony a side glance. "Not with my own hands and feet, I can't," she replied. She nodded down the street. "I could look some more into the spider-thief if you want. But right now…" She tilted her head up at the darkened skies. "Seems like you might want to hurry on home."

Tony's heart sank. He reached for his pocket again, dread pooling in his stomach at the absence of the timepiece in his hand. "I suppose so," he murmured. He looked down at Natasha. "Would you be willing to wish me luck?"

Natasha gave Tony a near-sympathetic smile. "My dear Mr. Stark," she said, patting Tony's shoulder. "You know very well that we both don't believe in luck."

Tony swallowed back a sigh. "I suppose you're right," he replied. He mocked squaring his shoulders—or, at least, partially mocked—and faced the bustling street in front of him. "Very well, then, Ms. Romanoff," he said, tilting his head down at Natasha's way. "I'll be expecting a message from you about the turnabout of this…spider-thief." As he made his way down the street, he called over his shoulder, "And don't think about going off to London again without telling me!"

Tony might have heard Natasha laugh, but when he turned around, the detective's head was already bobbing back in the other direction. A corner of Tony's lips twitched into a smile as he turned back around, but that little smile quickly faded as he reached again into his pocket. That sigh he had been holding back now escaped his lips and drifted up into the cooling autumn air. He knew he shouldn't be as upset about losing something as small and as commonplace as a pocket watch—but still, Tony thought, as he reached his doors, he had so enjoyed the almost shy and gentle look Ms. Potts had given him when placing that pocket watch in his hand on his last birthday.

* * *

**A/N: **_Because you can't have a nineteenth-century AU without including some other characters. (I promise we'll get a glimpse of more and more characters as the story continues!) _

_Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! The plan is to post chapters weekly, and of course, any feedback is great! _


	2. TWO

**TWO. **

"Quick, quick!"

Peter Parker dove through the window, eliciting a sharp yelp from his friend as he crashed to the floor. He heard the distant slam of the window against sill, followed by an exhale of relief. Peter propped himself up on his elbows to find Ned already wiping his hands on the sleeves of his trousers. "One of these days," the boy said, turning to Peter, "you're going to knock out my skull."

Peter grinned. "I'm too fast for that," he said. He tugged out the pocket watch from his pocket and dangled it in front of his friend's face. "Just for example," he added with a hint of smugness at Ned's widened eyes.

"Where did you get that?" Ned asked, leaning over to inspect the pocket watch. Even in the semi-darkness of the small room, the pocket watch glinted from under Peter's hand. Ned lifted his head from the shining watch and met what Peter knew was probably his own mischievous smile. "Peter," Ned repeated incredulously, "where did that come from?"

In response, Peter only spun the pocket watch the other way, and the sharp intake of breath from Ned was the reaction Peter was looking for—because Peter knew that Ned was looking at the unmistakable Stark Industries logo engraved into the gold of the watch.

Stark Industries: that fantastic company headed by Anthony Stark, that man who seemed to suddenly rise along with the rest of the millionaires of New York City. Anthony Stark, who built rockets and other rumored wonders deep within his steel fortresses. Anthony Stark, who appeared on the front pages of newspapers with an easy smile while building an empire. Anthony Stark, who Peter had read up on since he was a child in a mix of awe and admiration and maybe even a little longing, because only a dimwit wouldn't at least wish to be in the same room as someone like Mr. Stark.

"You took that from someone working in Stark Industries?" Ned asked, eyes widening.

"Even better," Peter said, turning the pocket watch over in his hand, "I took it from Mr. Stark."

Ned's mouth dropped open. For a moment, to Peter's great pleasure and amusement, the only thing Ned seemed capable of doing was making small gasping sounds and staring at the watch dangling in front of him. Peter's cheeks hurt from smiling, especially as Ned started shaking his head.

"You took it from Anthony Stark? _The _Anthony Stark?" Ned asked. He pointed a slightly trembling finger at the pocket watch. "You mean the one you don't ever shut up about?"

"I don't talk about him _all _the time," Peter defended quickly, heat crawling up his cheeks as he stuffed the pocket watch in his pocket. "But _yes_." He sat down on the floor and leaned back, resting his weight against his elbows. "I saw him around the wealthier districts." At Ned's disbelieved look, Peter lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "I hadn't been _looking _for him—he just happened along my way."

"I can't believe you stole from Anthony _Stark_," Ned breathed, plopping down in front of Peter. "Aren't you worried you'll be caught?"

Peter took the pocket watch out. Thumbing over the Stark Industries logo, Peter felt the briefest flash of guilt—the one he usually got from taking items that didn't belong to him. But then Peter lifted his head and took in the crumbling bricks and plaster around him. Turned his gaze to the dusty window that somehow never seemed to be thick enough to keep out the cold or the sounds of the city. Listened to the distant wail of a baby from downstairs. Smelled, tasted, breathed the scent of grime and smoke that only seemed to clog this part of the city.

"He won't miss it," Peter murmured, running his thumb over the engraved logo again. He could see Mr. Stark in his mind's eye even now—how the man had walked down the streets with the confidence of someone who didn't ever have to fear having someone ripped away from his hands. How even in the autumnal chill of New York City, Mr. Stark had seemed unaffected by the cold, as though lit by some other purpose that warmed his whole body. Or maybe that had just been his expensive coat, Peter thought, pushing the pocket watch out of view.

"I still can't believe it," Ned was saying. He shook his head. "Anthony _Stark_," he repeated. He tilted his head at Peter. "How're you gonna sell it without someone catching onto you?"

Peter managed a sheepish smile. "Haven't figured that part out yet," he replied honestly. Peter wished he had an exact plan on how to sell the items he had swiped over the last few weeks. He had figured he'd go to a pawnshop, maybe, but then he'd wondered if a pawnshop would be too suspicious. Then Peter had wondered if he could find maybe some buyer underground, but even that seemed a little too risky for Peter's taste. Of course, Peter was fast, so no doubt he could slip away if things got too messy, but still…Peter's heart fluttered just at the thought of looking at the men and women who seemed to lurk in the alleys and shadows in the middle of the night.

"I'll figure something out," Peter replied, getting up to his feet. He wiped his hands on his already-grimy pants legs and, peering out the rapidly darkening window, he added, "You don't have to worry about anything."

"Yeah, yeah," Ned snorted, rising from his spot on the floor. He took a step towards the window and looked back at Peter. "Are you going out the door like a normal human being today, or—"

Peter grinned, pushing past Ned. "What do you think?" he asked.

Ned mirrored Peter's grin. "Figured," was all Peter's friend said as he heaved open the window. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Peter said, and with a small salute, he dove out Ned's window.

The first thing Peter always had to process was the sudden whistle and current of the wind that rushed up to meet him whenever he snuck out. Peter looked down, and all he could see for a second were the small heads of pedestrians and the tops of street lamps and the fabric of scaffolding before he _lunged_, and then all Peter could see was brick and glass as Peter's hands and feet met the side of another building.

For a second, Peter's fingers and toes skidded and slid to find purchase on the wall, but as Peter slowed his descent, he came to a gradual stop at the center of the brick. Peter puffed out a small breath to himself and peered down at the streets below. He was still a long ways above the crowds, but this was how he liked it.

Peter tilted his head back up to the rest of the building and smiled to himself as he climbed his way up. He heard a faint cry from somewhere to his left, and when Peter looked, there was an old Asian woman doing her laundry at one of the dirtied windows. Her lips were parted in shock, and she said something in a language that Peter didn't understand before he quickly scurried up the rest of the building. Laughter threatened to bubble and spill over from his lips, but Peter somehow managed to get to the top of the building without falling off the side from the sheer humor of it all.

Still, a small laugh slipped out of Peter as he surveyed the rest of the city from the rooftop of the building. A sharper wind picked up and carded itself through Peter's hair as he turned towards the cluster of cramped apartment buildings where he'd have to travel to before May could come back.

Peter glanced over his shoulder, even though he knew there couldn't possibly be anyone standing on the rooftop with him—not at this hour. (Although he _had _once bumped into a rather surprised chimney boy a few months ago.) Satisfied with the absence of any audience, Peter took a running start and dove again off the rooftop ledge.

And again, Peter found purchase on the side of another building before leaping off to another building, and then another, and another, until Peter was flying—no, _soaring_—above the spires and heads of New York City. The rush of cold air threatened to form tears at the edge of Peter's eyes, but the rush of adrenaline kept the tears from falling. And this time, so high above any living soul, Peter let out his first laugh.

Peter imagined his laugh traveling from his lips to the streets below—to the little corner deli that he neared now—to the little girl who was still selling matchsticks across the street—to the old man sliding his window shut. Peter imagined his laugh coming straight back to him now as a small whisper, as a small assurance that no one had seen him again tonight.

As Peter dropped to the pavement, he could only just lift his head again to marvel at the walls he had just been soaring past moments ago. Peter allowed a smile to himself and shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling for the pocket watch. "Got you," he whispered, and with a self-satisfied whistle, he headed for the apartment.

As Peter suspected, May hadn't come back from work yet when he walked into the cramped apartment the two of them shared. 'Apartment' was a generous term for the dwellings in which the Parkers resided in, of course. Peter supposed the living situation could be worse; he had been to the neighborhoods where twenty or thirty people were cramped into one room, where babies were left wailing and crying in the dead of night, where one couldn't walk into a building without having their shoes soiled by muddy water or feces.

No, compared to the living horrors that other people had to reside in, Peter figured that even the cramped room that his aunt and he lived in was better than most, even if the room got frighteningly cold during winter and unbearably hot during summer. Peter puffed out a sigh and flopped down on the corner of the room most of his belongings were. There was a single mattress, which May usually slept in. Peter used to sleep in it, too, but then he decided he had become too old to sleep with his aunt, and despite May's protestations, he had assured her that he would be perfectly fine with the mound of blankets on the floor.

Now, sitting down on the blankets, Peter drew out the pocket watch. In the darkening room, the pocket watch's dull glint was a source of light. Peter flipped open the pocket watch, satisfied in how the little hands of the watch ticked along with each passing second. The watch, of course, was impressive, with each little detail seemingly made out of careful fingers. The face of the watch was a deep blue color, with numbers intricately painted under the glass. The hands that told the time moved with the systemic surety of something that could only be made out of a factory, but the delicate arrows and stems of the watch's hands was something that could only be designed from human ingenuity.

Peter couldn't help but feel a painful tug at his stomach—a tug of longing at the intricacies of the device. He imagined his own hands putting together the watch. Imagined how instead of turning levers and breathing in the smell of machinery in a factory, he was turning gears himself in a faraway workshop. HE imagined something more than just clocks, but more: more gears and cogs clicking together to create and cause people to marvel at just the way Peter marveled at the watch now.

Peter turned the watch over in his hands, and this time, something else glinted his way. He paused and stared at the inside of the pocket watch's cover—and though the light was fading fast from the window, he could just barely make out a series of words etched deeply into the gold.

"Proof that Tony Stark has a heart," Peter read aloud.

Just as those words left his lips, the door swung open, and Peter snapped the pocket watch shut. He only just shoved it under his blankets before his aunt came walking in.

"'evening, May," Peter said quickly, scooting over his blankets just for extra measure. "How was your day?"

"Busy as usual," May replied with a wan smile. Unwrapping her shawl, she added, "But we managed. Most of the more difficult dresses got done with." She looked over at Peter. "And you?"

Peter shrugged. "Busy as usual," he replied, which wasn't a total lie. Pickpocketing someone as famous as Anthony Stark couldn't be an easy task. He stood up and stretched his arms. "Ned and I were together for a bit earlier today." That wasn't a total lie, either, although Peter only now felt a quick flash of guilt at how his friend must have covered for him again at the factories while he was out and about.

"I hope you two didn't get distracted," May said, casting Peter a sidelong glance.

Peter shrugged again. "Of course not," he replied. He stood up and extended an arm out to May. "Did you have dinner yet?"

A crooked smile made its way on May's lips. "Why, I have not," she said loftily, looping her arm through Peter's.

* * *

Dinner wasn't necessarily an affair—it never was. But the light conversation between Peter and May (Peter about how Ned tricked the work master into going on a goose chase after some machine part; May about how one of the new dressmakers talked back at a snooty customer) always made thin soup and hard bread somewhat more palatable.

"We don't know if that customer will come back," May said, her smile slowly fading. She circled her spoon around the empty bowl, her teeth lightly gnawing down on her lower lip. She sat in silence for a bit like that, and with another bright smile, May said, "I'm sure everything will work out."

Peter managed a small smile back of his own. "Definitely," he nodded, but he thought back on the small pocket watch underneath his blankets ow. He'd have to find a way to sell something as high-profile as Mr. Stark's watch as soon as possible. With other items, like earrings and cuff links, selling had come along somewhat easily. Those items had come from obviously well-off people, but never from someone quite as public as Anthony Stark.

"All done?" May asked, nodding at Peter's bowl.

He nodded quickly and scooted the spoon and bowl towards May. She took the dishes and made her way to the basin. As the water ran, Peter walked over to his blankets. He watched May's hands—not calloused and bruised like those of the other women he had seen in the factories, but smooth and only slightly bandaged around the fingers from various flyaway needles and the like. He looked down at his own hands: calloused, but the fingers slender. These hands were equally clever with factory machines and picking the pockets of the wealthy—these hands that May told him were Parker hands, hands meant to make things.

Peter plopped down on the blankets and instantly cried out at the sudden pain that shot up his backside. He rubbed it just as May whirled around, her eyes wide.

"What's wrong?" May asked, hurrying towards Peter.

"Nothing," Peter said quickly, adjusting his position over the blankets. "Just sat down too fast, that's all."

May frowned. "I knew that floor's too hard for you," she said, tugging Peter to his feet. Before he could protest, May bent down and started gathering the blankets. "You're tired. You should get some sleep in the bed tonight."

"It's fine," Peter said quickly, trying to tug the blankets out of May's hands. "Really, it's nothing."

"Like hell it is," May tsked. "Don't argue—wait a minute."

Peter's stomach plummeted as May slowly withdrew the pocket watch from underneath the blankets. She turned to Peter, her eyes widening. "Peter…" She held up the watch in front of him, the Stark Industries logo glinting right off to him. Peter registered the way May's hands trembled as the pocket watch swayed between them. He saw the way May's chest rose and fell, the way her face blanched, and he prepared himself for the storm.

"What," May said slowly, "is this?"

Peter swallowed. He kept his eyes on the Stark Industries logo and replied meekly, "A pocket watch."

"And why," May asked, "do you have this?" May shook the pocket watch once. "We can't afford this." She stared at Peter, her eyes a mixture of both horror and shock. "Peter Benjamin Parker. This is where you explain."

Peter stared down at the ground. "I took it."

"You took it." May's voice was level. Dangerously level, which did not match her face. "You simply took a watch."

Peter's head lowered even further. "I thought it would help."

"Peter," May said, exasperated. "How could you—" She cut herself off with a deep, shuddering breath. "Peter," she tried again. "We don't steal. Do you understand me? We don't take things that aren't ours."

"But they won't even miss it," Peter protested. "It's just something that they'll never even notice that they lost—"

"You've done this before?"

Peter clamped his lips shut and stared furiously at his shoes.

"How—" May's voice was heavy, heavier than Peter had ever heard from her. "Did I ever raise you to believe that stealing was alright? What if you were caught? There could be…" She broke off with another heavy breath. "There could be a police investigation going on right now," she whispered. "You could be arrested. Taken away. Is that what you want?"

"I just wanted to help," Peter whispered. He hated how small his own voice sounded in his ears. He lifted his head. "I promise they don't see me." He searched May's face pleadingly. "You know they don't."

May pushed a hand up to her forehead. "Those…" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. You should know that by now." She dropped her hand and stepped towards Peter. She cupped Peter's chin with her hand. It felt soft and warm on Peter's skin. "Peter," she whispered. "You're better than this." She closed her eyes briefly. "I don't…" When May opened her eyes, Peter could see the tears threatening to come loose. "I don't want to lose you."

Peter swallowed. "You won't.."

"Then stop stealing." May held up the pocket watch. She smiled ruefully at it and pressed it into Peter's hand. "Give it back. And we'll start over in the morning."

Peter looked down at the pocket watch. "Aren't you tired of this, May?" He asked at last. He lifted his head up to her. "Don't you ever want…more?"

"The only thing I need is for us to stick together," May replied, squeezing Peter's hand. "That's all I'll ever need. Can't you say the same?"

Peter looked down at the pocket watch again. At the glistening Stark Industries logo. His throat tightened. In a small voice, he replied, "I'll give it back."

* * *

It wasn't hard to find where Mr. Stark lived. All of the wealthiest people lived somewhat nearby each other, and after hundreds of photographs taken of Mr. Stark supposedly near his residence, Peter found the Stark residence fairly easily, even in the dark.

Peter landed soundlessly on the windowsill of one of the upper floors of the building. Upon peering in, he found a long, impressively shiny dark wooden table with velvet-upholstered chairs. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, emitting a warm glow over the whole room. A maid bustled in with cleaning supplies, and before she could catch sight of him, Peter quickly ducked his way to the next windowsill. He reached into his pocket for the watch, oddly assured by its constant tick-tick-ticking. Where to put the watch was really Peter's dilemma now. Perhaps the master bedroom, if Peter could only find it…

Peter lifted his head into the window that he was now perched by. Through the glass, he saw a shining, dark wooden desk in the corner. Papers littered the surface, while other tables held large notebooks and envelopes clipped together by shining silver clasps. A bronze globe spun gently around on a table, and Peter stared at it, transfixed by how it seemed to move on its own.

The study, Peter realized. He squeezed the watch in his pocket. Why not, he reasoned. The study could be just a good a place as any for a watch to be lying around.

Smiling to himself, Peter heaved open the window. He wished Ned had been there in the room—that way, he could probably get in easier. Still, this window was ironically easier to open than the ones in his own apartment. He rolled through the window and fell to the ground with a soft _thump_, his shoes making contact with carpet.

Peter hastily rose to his feet. He drew the pocket watch out and looked around the study again. A single grandfather clock stood to the wall, its pendulum quietly swinging back and forth. The bronze globe still spun around and around on one of the tables, while another table—which Peter hadn't noticed until now—carried an array of metal tools. Peter paused. He took one step towards the table, then another. He hadn't ever seen such tools before, not these ones, which seemed so delicate and intricately created compared to the ones that Peter had seen in the factories. One tool looked like it was made out of nothing but a delicate wire, while another tool looked like it had nothing but hooks and levers. One tool looked like its sole purpose was to grab at tiny little objects, while another tool looked like a gun without a trigger to pull from.

Peter hovered over the tools. His fingers itched to hold on to one of them—to test one of them, to explore.

"Just return the watch," Peter whispered to himself. He stared down at the watch in his hand. At the Stark Industries logo. He had to just set it down on the table, and then he could slip out the window and act as though nothing had ever happened. Everything could be just as simple as that.

Peter only just placed the watch on the table when the door swung open.

* * *

**A/N: **_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! Next update to come on Saturday! (08/24)_


	3. THREE

**THREE. **

"So you lost the watch." Pepper Potts' face didn't betray any more emotion than her usual somewhat unimpressed, somewhat wary look whenever Tony would admit to some mistake. One time, Tony had hosted some sort of dinner party at his residence with, of course, food and drink abound. Tony distinctly remembered using a prototype of one of his inventions—some rocket—and firing it through the window. That was perhaps the angriest Tony had ever seen Pepper. "What a mess," she had said, thrusting a speech at Tony's hands the next morning. "One of these days, you'll blow up more than a window."

Tony knew his assistant had to sort through the mess he made for the next few weeks. As an apology, he had attempted to buy her fresh strawberries—only to remember that Pepper was allergic, and that had been that until Pepper stiffly told Tony that he needed to straighten his suit before going into a meeting…which was how Tony knew things were settled between them.

Right now, though, Pepper's face didn't hold any coldness or disappointment—just the slightest flicker of something in her eyes, but as fast as it came, it was gone.

"Someone stole it," Tony corrected. "But I've asked Detective Romanoff to look into the matter. She already has an idea who the perpetrator may be." He waved a hand as casually as he could, but the forced relaxation of his hand felt awkward and numbing. He let his hand drop to his side and said instead, "It'll be found soon, I'm sure."

"If Romanoff is looking into it, then of course," Pepper replied. She shifted the papers in her hands. "Was that all, Mr. Stark?"

Tony blinked. He jutted a thumb at the dining room behind him. "Dinner?"

Only now, the barest hint of a smile flickered over Pepper's lips. "I already ate, thank you."

"Ah." Tony swallowed back his disappointment. "A bit too late again tonight, was I?"

"Just a bit." Pepper bowed her head. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Stark. I believe I have some other affairs to sort through before the day officially ends."

"But of course," Tony replied, waving his hand again. "Good night, Ms. Potts."

"Good night, Mr. Stark." The ghost of a smile still tugging at Pepper's lips, she turned and walked away. Tony, meanwhile, let his eyes settle on her retreating back for one second, two, before breathing out the quietest sigh. He turned on his heel and entering the dining room, called, "What's for dinner? I'm starved."

* * *

Dinner was an overall quiet affair, as it often was. Even in Tony's childhood, dinners had never been the overwhelmingly cheerful meals that seemed to be written about in the novels that his mother used to sometimes read to him. There were never fathers who seemed particularly interested in how his children's day had been; there were never siblings who spoke over each other. There hadn't even been a dog for the parents to scold. There had only been Tony with his mother, for the most part—and when his father on occasion decided to grace the Stark family with his presence, dinner only became quieter and tenser. Only when Tony's father rose from the table did Tony feel the air rush back into his lungs, and then his mother would nod at him so he could excuse himself.

While Tony didn't necessarily have to worry about a father who might monologue about how disappointing his son was, the silence at dinner was always something that itched all over Tony's body. He felt that strange, terrible sensation all the way up his spine until he finally pushed himself away from the table and bid good night to whoever was closest to the room—usually one of the servants.

The silence followed Tony all the way down the hallway, up the stairs, down the corridor, and finally to his office. Tony wondered if Pepper was somewhere else in the building—maybe the library or her own quarters, working on whatever task she needed to complete. He pushed a hand into his pocket again, searching and coming up empty with the watch again. Tony suppressed a small groan. He hoped Natasha was figuring out whoever the culprit was, sooner rather than later.

With that, Tony pushed open the office door.

And promptly let it swing shut behind him with a soft creak as he registered the tall, thin boy standing by the window.

For a second, Tony only stared at the boy. Registered the mess of dark curls sitting atop the boy's head, the small face, and the wide, brown eyes that seemed too awake and alert for the late hour. Tony considered calling for help—for Pepper, maybe, or for one of the servants—but then he found the boy's chest just barely rising and falling, the locked shoulders, the color that drained out of the cheeks.

A boy.

Just a boy.

Finally, Tony managed to say, "Have you come to steal something else?"

The boy's lips parted. "I—" He started and tugged something out of his pocket. He thrust something onto the nearest table, and the movement was so simultaneously abrupt and awkward that Tony would have started laughing, had he not been so stunned at the fact that there was an actual boy standing in his office. "I was going to return it," the boy said hurriedly. He jabbed his finger at the table. "I swear."

Tony's eyes flitted over to the edge of the table and sure enough, there was his watch gleaming against the surface. He looked back at the boy, who edged closer to the window. "Funny," Tony only said. "I didn't think spiders felt guilt."

The boy blinked. "Spider?" he asked.

"A nickname for you," Tony said, taking a step forward. The boy instantly took a step back, slamming against the window. Tony paused mid-step. The boy stared warily back at Tony, hands shoved in his pockets and chin only slightly lifted up, whether in defiance or sheer stupidity, Tony couldn't tell.

"Spider," Tony repeated. "Someone told me you're fast. And good at climbing."

"Who told you that?" The boy bit his lip and tore his eyes away from Tony and to the rotating globe sitting at the edge of another workbench. "I mean—I didn't—I don't know what you're talking about. I can't climb to save my life. Who did you say said that again?" The boy's voice was small, so small in comparison to this setting, and that was when Tony registered how tight the boy's shoulders were drawn together, how pinched the boy's cheeks actually were under brighter lighting. And yet, just like before, Tony couldn't find an ounce of self-pity or exhaustion on the boy's face.

Tony felt the corner of his lips twitch. "Just a friend of mine. She's been thinking about some of your more recent robberies." He leaned against a workbench. "She'd never admit it, of course, but I think she's a little impressed. Or a little annoyed at how you're able to do something so naturally. Maybe both." He nodded at the watch at the table. "So why'd you bring it back? Do you usually bring back things you've stolen, or am I a special case for you?"

"My aunt made me return it," the boy mumbled, defeated.

"Your aunt?"

"She doesn't like me stealing things."

"I would hope so," Tony said, crossing his arms. "So does that mean you returned the other things you stole?"

Tony was only met with silence.

"No, then," Tony replied. He reached forward, and the boy flinched backwards. Tony paused again, his fingertips just barely brushing the corner of the table. He lifted his eyes up to the boy again, whose back seemed pressed tighter to the window than ever. And yet, though the boy's frame and stance seemed to want to bolt, those dark brown eyes clung on to Tony's with the same unwavering boldness that was reminiscent of earlier that day.

"No need to get excited," Tony finally said and picked up the pocket watch. He dangled it in front of the boy for a moment for good measure before tucking it in his pocket. "How did you manage to return this so quickly?"

The boy blinked. "Most people are pretty easy to find," he said at last. "And you're pretty easy, Mr. Stark. You've got the pictures in the newspapers and everything. I could figure out where you were fast." There—Tony noticed the barest tick of pride in the boy's voice.

"So you targeted me specifically?"

The boy's shoulders bunched together. "I wasn't _targeting _you," he mumbled, the pride suddenly fading from his voice. "But I…saw you." The boy's eyes flicked back up at Tony, but this time, they skipped past Tony and towards the workbenches. Tony followed the boy's gaze to the spinning globe and to the blueprints still rolled out on some of the tables.

"Find it interesting, do you?" Tony asked. He rubbed his thumb over the pocket watch. "Do you do anything besides stealing things?"

"Factories." The boy's eyes were still trained on the blueprints. "I do some machine work, mostly. The labor master likes me because I'm good with my hands." The boy's cheeks pinked, and he bowed his head once at Tony. "But you probably already know that."

"Good with your hands and good with machines, then?" Tony asked.

The boy lifted a shoulder. "I'm better than most of the other boys." This time, there wasn't too much pride—the boy said this statement as though it was as simple as saying that the ocean was made out of water. "I fix most things. I can usually figure out if there's something wrong with one of the machines."

"And how did a boy like you become familiar with machines?" Tony asked. His lower back hurt from pressing it so hard against the edge of the workbench, but he couldn't bring himself to move again—not with the boy still looking ready to jump out the window.

The boy shrugged again. "Just figured it out. Followed the news." He hesitated. "Is it true that you're developing more rockets at Stark Industries?"

Now it was Tony's turn to blink back in surprise. "Something along those lines."

"That's amazing," the boy said softly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I guess…good luck to those rockets, Mr. Stark, sir. They're gonna be good ones, if they're anything like what you've got planned on those blueprints." He paused. "Even though you've been building rockets for a while now. Not to say that the past rockets weren't good—I mean, they were, but…" The boy's face reddened, and he jerked his head to the ground. "Sir."

Tony stared. He wasn't sure what to be more surprised by—the fact that this boy had still not yet run away from the office or the fact that this boy had suddenly changed from a somewhat abashed pickpocket to a wide-eyed child. Tony turned around to the masses of blueprints and tools cluttered around his office. He turned back around to the boy, who still hadn't moved. To the boy, whose back had just barely parted from the windows.

"Why did you take the pocket watch?" Tony asked at last.

The boy bit down on his lip, and he sank back to the windows, which Tony was surprised to hate himself for. "My aunt and I are in a bit of a stretching season," the boy replied. His cheeks turning into a brighter shade of red, he amended, "Most of us are. I just wanted to help."

"What, by getting yourself behind bars?"

The boy jerked his head up, his eyes widening with fear, and Tony quickly said, "Not that that's going to happen to you right now. Not because of me."

The boy's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you—"

"You want to help your aunt," Tony interrupted. "That's all fine and good and chock full of helpful nephew stories. But there are other ways to help." Tony flipped the pocket watch out and turned it around in his palms. "Tell you what," he said slowly, eyeing the boy. "You're good with machines, right?"

The boy nodded.

"Don't get quiet on me now—you were talking your mouth a mile a minute just a second ago," Tony snorted.

"I—yes, sir," the boy breathed. "Good with machines, definitely."

"Alright, then," Tony said. He pushed himself off the workbench and walked towards the boy. This time, the boy didn't try to move away. Tony lifted the pocket watch. "Instead of stealing things from random pedestrians to help your aunt, come to Stark Industries. We could use quick boys."

The boy's lips parted. "You…" His voice drifted. Tony watched the boy's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. "You want me to work for you?"

"Why not," Tony replied, turning the pocket watch over again in his hand. "It beats pick-pocketing, don't you think? A lot more legal, too." He met the boy's eyes. "How long have you been following Stark Industries?"

"For as long as I can remember," the boy replied instantly. "My aunt used to tell me to go to bed before I lost my eyesight because I kept trying to read the articles about what Stark Industries—what you were doing." The boy's lips turned upwards into a small, shy smile, and Tony paused.

"And what's your opinion of Stark Industries so far?" Tony asked. "You mentioned the rockets—but is there anything you think we should…try?" For a moment, Tony's question hung in the air for a second too long, and Tony bit the insides of his cheek. He wasn't sure what compelled him to give out that question. Maybe it had been the fact that he had dismissed some of his own lead scientists earlier that day, or maybe it had been the fact that Tony was tired, or maybe it had simply been the fact that this strange boy in Tony's office still stared at him like there was still an infinite supply of possibilities that made Tony ask the question. Either way, the words slipped out of Tony and hung between the boy and himself like a weight.

Finally, the boy replied, "Honestly, sir, I think your rockets are fine and good. They are." He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Tony couldn't help but hold onto his breath and wait.

"The rockets are good," the boy repeated. "But the rockets you built makes me wonder if we could ever build more." He shot Tony a quick look and, when finding that Tony was looking straight at him, the boy bowed his head again. "But that's only a thought, Mr. Stark," he said quickly. "Not meant to be offensive or anything. Just—"

"No," Tony interrupted, and he let out the breath that was trapped in his chest. If anything, he felt like his lungs were being filled with fresh air. Something more than rockets—Tony would have smiled if he wasn't staring at this odd boy who had somehow snuck into his office. "I don't take offense to it at all." He crossed his arms over his chest, and then he dropped them to his sides, his hand still clinging onto the pocket watch. He could feel the steady tick-tick-ticking in his hand now.

"Alright," Tony said at last. "So you're hired. I expect you to come to Stark Industries Monday morning, understood?" He nodded out the window. "I'm sure a boy of your talents can figure out where to find Stark Industries."

"I—of course," the boy breathed. He scrambled upright, his eyes brighter than ever before. "I—yeah. Monday morning?"

Tony nodded once, and the boy beamed. "I'll be there, Mr. Stark," the boy said quickly, already backing towards the window. "I—ow," the boy winced as he banged his head against the glass, but he shot Tony a quick smile. "You won't regret this, I promise. Monday morning!"

"Yeah, yeah," Tony said, feeling a smile threaten to take over his own face. He quickly bit it back and as the boy swung one leg through the window, Tony straightened and called, "Wait, kid—I never got your name. Your real name, this time—not just some nickname."

"You mean the nickname you gave me?" The boy grinned, and sticking out his hand, he added, "I'm Peter. Peter Parker."

Tony took the hand, surprised to find it warmer than he expected. He could feel the callouses along Peter's palms, and when he let go, Tony found that Peter's warmth still lingered in his own hand. "Nice to meet you, Peter Parker," Tony said. He looked over Peter's shoulder. "Safe…travels."

Peter grinned again. "Nice to meet you too, Mr. Stark," he said, and with nothing more than a whip of wind and a distant whoop, the boy was gone.

* * *

**A/N: **_It's been asked whether Peter has powers in this story. As of now, I just plan on having Peter with some serious wall-climbing skills, nothing much more. As always, reviews would be wonderful, as they are essentially the life-giving ambrosia for the writers. (You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not.) _

_The next time I update, I'll be starting classes (woo-hoo for reality!), but I promise you guys can stay well-assured that I'll continue with the weekly updates because I've actually written chapters ahead of time. So the reviews/constructive criticism is always greatly appreciated! _


	4. FOUR

**FOUR. **

Hired.

Peter's cheeks hurt from the force of his own smile. He leapt from Tony Stark's window and dropped down to a building a little ways down the street. From his perch on the rooftop of this other building, Peter could still see Tony in the window, his figure lit up from the lights of his office. Though Peter doubted Tony could see him from the window, Peter could see the man still standing by the window, could still see the small, almost knowing smile the man still wore.

Peter dropped his head to the pavement below, his heart pounding quickly in his chest. Monday morning would come, he knew. And he'd be walking through the doors of Stark Industries, breathe in the smell of metal and blueprints and walk through hallways of men in white coats as new things were being built around him.

Peter lifted a hand to his chest, as though the warmth of his hand alone against his shirt would be enough to calm his beating heart. He looked again to Tony's office window and found that the man was leaning against the window now, his forehead pressed against the glass. Peter paused, keeping his eyes on the man who had only a moment ago been smiling. Now, the great inventor seemed tired at the very least.

Peter's smile slowly faded from his face as he registered the slight slump in Tony's shoulders that hadn't been there before. He considered the man for a moment, but as though he sensed he was being watched, Tony's head suddenly jerked up. Peter sucked in a breath, pressing himself tighter against the building as though that alone could make him invisible, but Tony wasn't looking at Peter.

Instead, Peter watched as Tony backed away from the window. The lights went out, and Peter decided that his brief audience with the great Tony Stark was officially over.

With that, Peter leapt from the building and launched himself to the next rooftop. His feet found purchase against the rooftops as he jumped from building to building. He could only imagine May's reaction—_May_, Peter thought giddily, who he'd have to thank as soon as he got home. To think, if he hadn't listened to May about returning the watch, then maybe he never would have met Tony Stark, and maybe he would never have gotten the opportunity to be able to work in _Stark Industries_.

Peter halted on one of the rooftops, letting his breath escape from his lips in sharp puffs. He bent forward for a moment, feeling like both his head and heart were suddenly being pumped with the kind of cold, clean air that only came when there was something good around the corner.

Stark Industries. Tony Stark.

Peter lifted his head from the rooftop and leaned back. He registered the dark night sky above him and, to his surprise, found the stars. He hadn't been able to see the stars as of late, whether it be because of the smog or the clouds or a mixture of both, but tonight, by some stroke of luck, the sky had cleared just enough for Peter to make out a small patch of stars directly above his head.

Peter smiled and continued on his way home.

* * *

"May!" Peter burst into the room and dove to the corner of the room where his aunt was already drifting off. "Come on! Wake up!"

May's eyes flew open. "What—" She lifted her head at Peter and, taking in Peter's face, asked slowly, "What happened?"

"I'm going to work at Stark Industries!" Peter cried. Before May could even react, Peter grabbed his aunt's hands and swung them as though he was a child again. "I returned the watch to Mr. Stark, and he started talking, and then I started talking, and then he decided that I would be better off working for him than anything else, and he told me to come to him Monday morning, and I told him that I would—"

"Slow down!" May protested, though Peter could tell from the way that her eyes shined that she, too, could hardly believe what Peter was saying. Her hands still swinging with Peter's, May asked, "But how…?" She shook her head, though Peter had the feeling it was more to herself than to Peter. "Wasn't he angry?"

"Not really," Peter replied cheerfully. He turned May over in a small twirl, and his aunt let out a small albeit disbelieved laugh. "We just talked." He dropped May's hands and beamed. "I'm going to be working for Stark Industries," he said. "I'm really going to be working there."

"I still can't believe it," May only whispered. She brushed a hand over Peter's hair, and he leaned into her hand. "I don't know what Mr. Stark was or _is _thinking, but…oh, Peter." May's eyes were still shining when Peter met her gaze. "I'm so happy."

Peter smiled. "Things are going to get better, May," he whispered. "I can feel it."

May smiled back, and Peter was still resting his forehead against May's hand when the world exploded around him.

* * *

Someone was screaming in the background.

No, multiple someones, Peter realized as he pried his eyes open. He made out the dark sky above him, some inky black expanse that both seemed too dark and too greasy to be the real night. Peter only just registered that darkness before his eyes fluttered back to a close. His whole body felt numb. Something wet trickled down the side of Peter's face. He smelled something metallic, something putrid, something burning.

The screaming around Peter intensified, and he pried his eyes open again. Still, his eyes found the night sky first, and for a moment, Peter stared up at the too-dark sky. He couldn't make out the stars anymore, not with so many lights nearby him.

Lights.

Peter blinked and swiveled his head to the side, instantly crying out the sudden movement. Still, as he blinked back the yellow spots dotting his vision, Peter made out the small flames scattered around him. Peter narrowed his eyes, the flames swimming as he slowly made out the piles of brick, cement.

And then Peter saw an arm.

That wasn't attached to a body.

Bile rose up in Peter's throat, but he couldn't even cry out again. He turned away, only now starting to register the dull throbbing in his head. He brought a shaking hand up to the side of his head and felt the oddly warm, sticky sensation of what could only be blood against his fingertips. Peter pulled his hand away and gazed at the deep, dark red. He swallowed hard. Was this all?

Peter glanced down at himself, bracing himself for the worst, but no—his limbs were all attached. Peter let out the smallest breath of relief before shifting his gaze around once more. The dust and smog had settled now, and Peter could make out more people amongst the brick and cement. A small child was bumping against collapsed columns, one small hand clinging onto an ugly doll while the other searched blindly amongst the bricks. "Mama?" the child called plaintively, eyes wide amongst the ruin.

Peter's throat tightened as the child continued to bump along the disaster. "Mama?" the child repeated, and that was when Peter remembered May.

"May?"

Peter's throat ached. "May?" he called again, craning his head back wildly for his aunt. If he survived, surely, May must have—

An inhuman sound made its way out of Peter's lips as his eyes landed on a familiar shawl. Peter struggled up, ignoring the sharp agony that dug its way into his ribs and legs as he moved into a semi-standing position. "May," Peter gasped, and he teetered forward, one hand gripping his torso while the other flailed in the air.

Peter crashed down against the shawl, searching desperately for its owner—May had to be here somewhere, anywhere—

"Peter."

Peter jerked his head up to find May propped up by what used to be a part of a wall. Blood dripped down from the corner of her mouth, and her arm rested awkwardly on her lap, and yet, Peter felt air rush back into his lungs as he hurried over to his aunt.

"You're alright," Peter whispered, brushing back a strand of May's hair. "We're fine."

"Peter," May murmured, and her eyes fluttered to a close.

Peter's heart leapt into his throat. "No," he said, shaking his aunt. "Stay awake, May. Please."

May's head lolled from shoulder to shoulder. "Peter," she breathed, opening her eyes with such weariness that Peter felt the energy slowly sapping out of his body. "Everything's gone."

Peter turned over his shoulder. He couldn't find the child from before now, but he saw a small mass of people gathering around the mess—unmarked and unhurt people, just people who were witnesses. People who, Peter realized, wore the same expressions of grief. Not for themselves, but for all who were lost now.

Peter turned back around to May. "No," he said, forcing his voice to be bright. "Not all is gone. We'll survive, won't we?"

May looked down at her lap. "My arm…" she whispered, her voice only just cracking.

Peter ignored the ice that suddenly slid into his veins at his aunt's voice. "We'll survive," Peter continued, though he wasn't sure if he was reassuring May or himself at this point. "Everything will be fine." He lowered a hand, careful to take May's uninjured arm. "Can you stand?"

May lifted her head. For a brief moment, Peter feared that May couldn't see him—but then his aunt nodded, and she rose to her feet. Peter huffed out a quiet breath of relief and patted his own shoulder. "Lean," he instructed, but May shook her head.

"You're hurt, too," May said, placing a slightly trembling hand on Peter's head.

"Just a scrape," Peter said, brushing May's hand away. "Come on, May, we've got to—"

"Peter!"

Peter whirled around to find a familiar figure bounding towards him. It wasn't until Peter made out Ned's face from a few feet away did he finally let what felt like a real smile break over his face. "Ned," he said, practically collapsing into his friend's arms. "I don't—"

"Came over as soon as I heard," Ned breathed, patting Peter's back. "We've got to get you two out of here."

Peter let himself be led away from the wreckage, one hand in Ned's and the other wrapped around May's uninjured wrist. All the while, Ned filled the silence with his own voice, which felt a bit odd—Peter had been the one who would constantly get into trouble because of his constant chatter, but tonight, Peter couldn't find anything to say. He only nodded as Ned rattled off the people who he had seen on his way to the demolished building. ("Ms. Chan's complaining about the new neighbors again, and Mr. Kim told me that his nephew's coming from across the ocean, and…") Not once did Ned actually bring up the ruined apartment or the chances of the building being fixed—the only acknowledgement Ned gave to the disaster was "oh, Mrs. Parker, we need to fix your arm."

"Hang on, we're almost there," Ned said, and at last, the three stopped in front of the shambling apartment building that was Ned's home. Really, there were two parts to the home—the lower level, a Chinese restaurant owned by a family that lived a block away, and the upper level, where Ned and his family lived.

"Come on," Ned said, pushing past the door. The jingle of the bell attached to the door seemed almost too quiet for the night, with Peter's ears still ringing from the explosion and the dull thrum of blood still rushing about his head. Still, he pressed forward after Ned and made his way up the stairs with his friend.

"Ma, I found Peter and his aunt—oh."

Ned stopped short in front of Peter, and Peter only just barely managed to slow his steps before he could crash into Ned's back. At first, Peter opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but then he smelled the half-scorched, sweaty stench that could only come from injuries. Peter craned his neck over Ned's shoulder and found, not to his surprise, already a small group of people laying on the floor.

In the corner, Peter found Ned's mother, carefully bandaging a small child's leg. "What is it?" Ned's mother asked, lifting her head from the child. Peter's heart sank at the woman's face. There were dark half-moons under the Ned's mother's eyes, and though she kept her hands moving, her shoulders were slumped forward as though she was holding up the weight of the world.

Peter swallowed. He heard the soft moan of some other person in the room, and he felt Ned stiffen in front of him.

"It's okay," Peter whispered, patting Ned on the back. "You have enough people to take care of."

Ned whirled around, his face stricken. "We can make room," he said weakly, but Peter saw the distant panic in his friend's eyes and forced out a smile.

"We'll find another way," Peter said, squeezing Ned's shoulder. "Thanks for the offer, though."

Ned stared. "But Peter," he whispered, "where else do you have to _go_?"

For a moment, Peter stopped short. Then, he looked past Ned's shoulder and to the single window at the far end of the wall. In the distance, he could only just barely make out the bright lights of the wealthier districts. When Peter and Ned had been younger, Peter would be able to persuade Ned into getting on the rooftop with him. They'd sit at the edge, their legs swinging with the breeze as they surveyed the twinkling lights from so far above. "One day," Peter had said, "we're gonna live there."

Peter looked back at Ned. "I have an idea," he said.

* * *

**A/N: **_Just depending on my schedule, I may start updating this on Friday afternoons instead of Saturdays...but we shall see what happens as my schedule shifts now that the school year has officially started for me. College is fun, but it's also a lot of work. _

_As always, reviews would be much appreciated! (Come help this poor child who needs more sleep.) Constructive criticism is also welcome! _


	5. FIVE

**FIVE. **

"Mr. Stark."

Tony jerked his head up from his desk. "I'm awake," he declared and promptly winced at the sharp pain at his cheek. He lifted a hand to the side of his face and felt along the slight imprint of papers left against his skin. Damn, he'd have to walk around striped today.

"Clearly," Pepper said, placing a steaming cup of coffee at the edge of the desk. As per usual, the woman looked absolutely impeccable, not a single strand of hair out of place from the tightly coiled bun at the back of her head. Tony reached a hand to the back of his head in a semi-conscious effort to smooth back what he knew was most definitely his own rumpled hair. However, if Pepper was at all impressed (or amused, more likely) by Tony's attempt at looking even a little more presentable, she didn't show it.

Instead, Pepper dropped the usual heavy stack of envelopes and folders at Tony's desk. "Some contracts that have come back from the dismissed workers," she said, tapping one of the folders with her slender fingers. "As well as some letters from your business partners."

"And before breakfast time, too," Tony muttered, reaching for the coffee first. He flipped open one of the envelopes and grimaced at the papers inside.

"And there's something else, too," Pepper said, picking out a heavier looking envelope. Only unlike the others, which were mostly plain (white) and mostly reeked of officialdom, this envelope was a shade of cream (made with more expensive paper, Tony knew) and seemed only to hold one bit of paper.

"A gala," Pepper said, handing the envelope to Tony. She waited as Tony slipped the invitation out of the envelope. "A charity event. You are allowed to invite guests of your own, so long as you don't invite more than a party of five." After a pause, she added, "I need not remind you that your own appearances at these events would be most favorable to the public."

"Yes, yes," Tony said, handing the invitation back to Pepper. "Most favorable, indeed." He reached for his coffee again. He had the feeling he would need more coffee for the rest of the day. "Is there anything else? Anything interesting?"

"Detective Romanoff is downstairs."

"About the thief, most likely," Tony said, wincing. Natasha would not be happy to know that Tony hadn't let her know to not waste her time or energy finding the boy—or, Tony mused, Natasha would not be happy to know that Tony had been able to fix the situation before Natasha could. Tony couldn't help but smile a little to himself at the prospect.

"I don't think that is the case," Pepper replied.

Tony looked up at her, puzzled. "Why do you say that?"

Pepper paused. For a moment, she looked almost sympathetic for Tony—almost—but then her face smoothed back out and she said, "Because she has Captain Rogers with her."

Tony stiffened. He felt Pepper's eyes boring into him, but Tony couldn't do much else except stare past her. He focused on the door behind her instead, on the shining doorknob that reflected back bits and parts of the office. He imagined Natasha on the floor below him, undoubtedly pacing back and forth and wondering what was taking Tony so long. And imagining the detective by herself was easy—arms crossed, scarlet hair bobbing just slightly along with her head, eyes sweeping the foyer.

Imagining Steve—_Captain Rogers_, Tony corrected—was the trickier part.

"Why?" Tony asked at last, jerking his gaze away from the doorknob. He saw Pepper, but he couldn't meet her gaze. Not with Pepper still looking at him like _that_, like Tony was glass.

"Detective Romanoff didn't say," Pepper replied. "Only that it was serious enough to require his attention as well."

"Really." Tony's voice sounded too loud for his own ears. "Must be serious, then."

"Tony—"

"Using my own name, must be _very_ serious," Tony said, standing up. "Pepper." His eyes flitted up to Pepper again, who just pressed her lips together. She met Tony's eyes for the briefest of moments and within the same heartbeat, turned her eyes away.

"Captain Rogers and Detective Romanoff are waiting," Pepper only said.

"Right you are," Tony muttered, walking around the desk. He made his way towards the door, but before he could reach even the doorknob, he felt Pepper's sharp brisk catch up to him. Without even so much as a glance, Pepper opened the door before Tony and made her way down the stairs.

Tony paused in the doorway. He watched Pepper's back retreat down the stairs, watched how her shoulders seemed to square more and more with each step she took and rested his forehead against the doorframe. Things would be so much easier if Pepper just dealt with Captain Rogers (and Detective Romanoff, of course) on her own.

Tony glanced back at his desk. Perhaps Pepper could stall his visitors just long enough so that they could finally go mad with boredom and maybe, Tony would be allowed to work on his own.

A huff of laughter escaped Tony's lips despite himself. He could imagine how much Steve would like that—Steve, with his incessant needs for _rules _and _routine_ and all other things so boringly, hellishly textbook. Kept waiting for longer than five minutes—what a horror.

Only the sound of quick footsteps back up the stairs forced Tony's gaze back out the door and, not to his complete surprise, he found Pepper marching up to him.

"When I said Captain Rogers and Detective Romanoff were waiting, I meant for you to _come down_," Pepper said pointedly, stopping just two steps away from the landing.

"I've decided on trying a new experiment," Tony replied, "to see if I could come down the stairs in spirit and have my presence just as noticeable."

"Mr. Stark."

"Ms. Potts."

Pepper walked up, now just one step away from the landing. "Mr. Stark," she repeated. "It's rude to keep your visitors waiting."

"And it's also rude to walk about in public without stockings, but I hardly think every lady follows that rule," Tony retorted. "What are your thoughts on going about without stockings, Ms. Potts?"

"Irrelevant," Pepper replied. She took up another step. She was on the landing now, which meant she was now only a few steps away from Tony. "But I can assure you that no matter my opinion on stockings, our visitors will still be waiting."

"Can't you settle the matter on your own? You're capable enough," Tony said.

"That is hardly—"

Before Pepper could finish, something thick and grey shot past Pepper's shoulder and hit Tony squarely in the chest.

"For goodness' sake," Natasha growled from the bottom of the stairs, "you're on the news. And it's not good."

* * *

"A sector of the working district got blown up by weapons made by Stark Industries," Natasha said, folding her arms over her chest. "Ten deaths counted so far, but more casualties to come. The full report will probably be released tomorrow or later today." She tapped the cover. "Most people wouldn't give a damn about the people who got hurt, but the story's following Stark Industries now." Natasha's whole face was pale, and Tony remembered that she hadn't grown up in the cushiest of sectors, either. He wondered (not for the first time) if Natasha had grown up in a place like this one.

Tony's throat tightened. He stared at the front cover. Someone had taken a picture of a single child sitting amidst the ruin of bricks and flame. The child seemed to stare straight past the camera and right at Tony. He scooted the paper away from himself and looked up at Natasha. "I didn't do this."

"I know you didn't," Natasha said quietly, and for the first time since that morning, her face softened. She picked up the paper and added, "But the whole city might think you did, which is why we need you to think of who _might _have done this. Someone who might have gotten into Stark Industries or stolen something recently. Anything at all could help us get behind who did this."

"_Us_?" Tony jerked his head forward, and Natasha turned only slightly to gesture at Steve Rogers standing silently behind her.

"This thing is too public, Tony," Natasha said. "The police was already going to get involved."

Tony lifted his eyes to look at Steve—the ever-perfect captain, ever-perfect golden boy. Blond hair perfectly trimmed in some military fashion, ocean eyes meeting Tony's as steadily as he always had. Even when they were fighting (even when Tony had demanded Steve to _get out of the house_), Steve had only stared back as though waiting or expecting more.

Tony ripped his eyes away from Steve now. "Must be a grand old time at the station, then," Tony said, flicking away a corner of the papers. "I can only imagine the excitement this whole thing is stirring. Is that right, Captain?" He flicked his eyes up at Steve, then away, as though looking alone would burn his eyes. (Might as well have—the last time Tony and Steve talked, there was a black eye involved. Not on purpose, of course, but still a big enough bruise for Pepper to get worried about later.)

Steve cleared his throat. "We're getting to the bottom of this, Mr. Stark. We can promise that."

A corner of Tony's lips twitched into a smile—but not a happy one. "Of course," he said. "And who am I to doubt a promise from the police."

Now it was Natasha's turn to clear her throat. "I brought Steve in," she said, turning to Tony, "because he's our best shot." At Tony's dubious look, she added, "He knows more about Stark Industries than most of the force. And he's also the least likely to punch you in the face, so…" She straightened up and, looking between Tony and Steve, finished, "So for the sake of this case, you two boys are going to have to set aside whatever feud you've got going. Or at least try to work around it."

"There's nothing to work around," Tony muttered.

"There won't be a problem," Steve said.

"Is that another sweet promise I hear from the police?" Tony asked.

Steve looked at Tony. "Something like that," he replied.

Natasha blew out a long breath, the kind that kept Tony from shooting back a response to Steve. The kind that usually came before she dragged someone out of a room by the ear. The kind that usually came before Tony regretted whatever it was he was going to say, because for some reason, Natasha always knew.

"Feuding to a minimum, boys," she reminded, and with that, she plucked the newspaper up from the table. She folded it underneath her arm and said, "You're lucky I caught onto this before any of the other journalists came after you today. Although I'm sure you'll be attacked by them if you walk out of the house."

"I'll be working from home today," Tony said decidedly.

Natasha snorted. "Bold move." She turned to Steve. "Well, Steve?" she asked, re-adjusting her grip on the newspaper. "Anything else you want to let Tony know?"

Steve dipped his head towards Tony. "Nothing of the utmost importance," he said. He straightened his shoulders—_as though his shoulders needed any more straightening, _Tony thought, resisting the urge to smirk—and asked, "Are there any people you can think of who might try to infiltrate Stark Industries?"

Tony ran a hand over the top of the table. He felt a ridge in the wood, picked his hand up from the table. "My competitors, for one," he said. He tapped his fingers against the table. "No secret that most weapons factories already have been eyeing SI ever since…well." He smiled crookedly. "Since probably the beginning." He snapped his fingers at Natasha. "And that's the humblest way I can put it, so."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Anyone else?"

Tony's mind briefly flashed to the people he had dismissed the past day. How some of those people hadn't seemed quite put together. A chill ran up his spine. "I let go of some people," he said. "Not too sure about the timing of the whole thing, though—not with the explosions happening the same night I let them go."

"It's worth looking into," Steve said. "We can't be too careful." He withdrew a small notebook. "Could you give a list of those people?"

"Pepper can give you the details," Tony replied, looking at Natasha. He saw Steve slowly slide the notebook back into his pocket. "She's got most of the information, anyways."

"As always," Natasha noted. "And the pocket watch? How did she take the information about that?"

"Ah," Tony said. "The pocket watch somehow made its way back to me. No thanks to you, by the way."

"I was a little distracted last night by other news, in case you couldn't tell."

"Right." Tony managed what he hoped was a somewhat apologetic smile.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I didn't come back to America to deal with this, you know."

"No, you came back to America because you missed me. Obviously."

"Don't push it, Tony," Natasha scoffed, but the small smirk on her face let Tony know that he was out of the red zone. Only Steve clearing his throat broke the temporary lull in banter. When Natasha and Tony both turned to look at him, Steve had already backed up considerably towards the door.

"I'll be off, then," Steve said, nodding his head once at Natasha. "It was nice seeing you back, Nat."

Natasha's smirk smoothed into a smile. "Nice to be back," she replied.

Steve smiled the first genuine smile Tony had seen that morning. His face evened out; his jaws unclenched, and Tony saw the same person who had appeared in his father's office all those years ago. But that was neither here nor there.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Stark," Steve said, titling his head towards Tony.

Tony gave a terse nod back and watched Steve walk out of the room. A silence hung in the air even after Steve left, and then Natasha let out a long, slow sigh.

"Are you two ever going to talk?" Natasha asked, casting Tony a sidelong glance.

"I'll talk when he talks," Tony replied, shifting his gaze back down at the newspaper. "And that'll only happen when he feels particularly graceful one day."

"Don't act like you're the saint here," Natasha said loftily. "It's not a good look on you." She skirted the newspaper out of Tony's hands. "And stop looking at that thing. There's nothing else to look at, at this point." Shifting the newspaper under her arm, she added, "This thing will blow over. We'll find out whoever that culprit is, and then things can go back to normal for you. Or, at least, your definition of normal."

"Hopefully," Tony muttered. He rubbed his temples. "Those people…"

"I know."

"That wasn't right." Tony shook his head. His fingers curled inwards. Not into a fist, but into some kind of grip, as though Tony could take something solid out of thin air. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"We'll find him, Tony. Or her."

Tony nodded, but he felt he was nodding more to himself than to Natasha. Then, pushing himself away from the table, he asked, "Did you have breakfast yet?"

"I can't stay," Natasha replied. "I've got some other people to follow up with."

"People who aren't me?"

"Miraculously, my life doesn't revolve around you."

"A pity."

Natasha barked out a laugh before turning on her heel. "I'm sure you can manage to at least walk me out?"

"Wouldn't be proper of me not to," Tony said. He and Natasha only just made it to the door when they stopped short.

"There's someone at the door," Steve said.

Tony frowned. "What?" He looked Steve up and down. "Who?"

Steve gestured down the hallway. "Some kid." He regarded Tony with wary eyes. "Says he knows you."

"A kid?" Natasha repeated. "Tony, what—"

"I don't—" And then Tony stopped. "I told him that he could start Monday"

"Start what on Monday?" Natasha called after Tony as he made his way to the foyer. He heard Steve call after him, too, but Tony didn't stop moving. He tugged open the door, a speech already halfway past his lips when he stopped, door mid-swing.

Tony could hardly recognize Peter. Blood and ash streaked the boy's otherwise pale face, and he staggered under the weight of a semi-conscious woman. Tony couldn't make out the woman's face, which was dark under a layer of soot and grime.

"What…"

Peter lifted his head. "Help," he only said. And crashed into Tony.

* * *

**A/N: **_Just for the sake of my schedule now that I'm in college, I'll start updating on Friday nights instead of Saturday mornings/afternoons. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always super appreciated!_


	6. SIX

**SIX. **

"Tony? Who—"

"He looks—"

"Hold on, hold on—give us some space—"

Peter tried to make sense of the voices around him, but there were too many buzzing at once. He only felt cloth against his face, hands—warm hands—on Peter's shoulders. And then weight was being pulled away from his arms, followed by a small moan.

_May_, Peter thought, and somehow, that was enough for him to force his head up. "Wait—" he started, but he instantly swayed fast, too fast, forward before being grabbed back. "No—Aunt May—"

"You can't carry her on your own," someone said. "We're going inside." And with that, he was turned gently around. Peter looked up. He registered Tony's face first. Eyebrows furrowed, lines appearing on his forehead, dark eyes skimming over Peter with an alertness that reminded him of last night. Peter looked down, found Tony's hands around his arms now. "You're hurt," Peter heard Tony say above him. "What—"

"The explosion," someone said from behind Tony. Peter let his eyes wander finally to the other people with Tony. A woman with startlingly red hair had May pressed against her shoulder. "Tony, _look at him_."

Tony's lips parted slightly. His voice was rough when he started, "You—"

"Inside," someone else said, and this time, the voice came from a tall, broad-shouldered man who seemed to take up the rest of the space behind Tony. "Not out here."

Tony cleared his throat. "Come on, kid," he said, his hands still on Peter. "Let's…yeah. Inside."

If it hadn't been for the fact that Peter heard the door close behind him, he wouldn't have thought he moved at all. His head was still ringing. He brought a hand up to the side of his face, felt the wetness on his cheek again. So the wound had started bleeding again, he thought distantly. Ned had tried his best to bandage the worst of the cuts, but Peter had to wave him away after seeing the people in his already-cramped apartment.

"I can't send you two off like this," Ned had said, wide-eyed as Peter explained that he'd try his luck elsewhere. "I don't know why you think this is a good idea—"

"I'll be fine," Peter had promised, though he couldn't ignore the churning in his stomach that had nothing to do with the sights and smells inside the apartment. "I'm not that hurt. It's Aunt May."

"So we'll try somewhere else around here," Ned said desperately, but those words fell flat, and both boys knew it. "You can't just—" He threw his hands up in the air, let them fall against his sides. "I don't want you to get even more hurt," Ned said quietly. "You can't."

Peter's chest tightened as he forced a smile. "We'll survive," he had said. He managed a wink, even as yellow dots swarmed his vision when he re-opened his eyes. "We always do."

"But you shouldn't be _just surviving_," Ned said. "None of us should be."

And Peter couldn't say anything to that, because who could argue back against something like that? So he only tried for another smile, patted Ned once on the shoulder, and said, "I'll let you know when we're in the clear. You'll hear back from us. I promise."

"And if you don't?" Ned asked as Peter made his way down the stairs with May on his shoulders.

"You will," Peter replied. "Count on it."

But the moment Peter had stepped out on the pavement, he had felt his knees start to buckle. He had lifted his head up to the still-dark sky, had only just registered the buildings that seemed taller and more cramped than ever before re-adjusting his grip on May and trudging forward. He didn't know how long or how far he walked, but by the time he had finally reached Stark's building, the grey light of dawn had only just started to brighten the sky.

"Come on," Peter heard Tony say. He felt hardwood floors underneath his shoes slowly turn into carpet, felt a gentle pressure on his shoulders that forced him to sit down on something vaguely soft. "Just wait here a minute."

Peter lifted his head up just in time to see Tony hurrying out of the room.

The room.

Peter slowly turned his head, taking in the tall wooden shelves of thick books. A fireplace against a wall, though not yet lit. Tall windows with long, dark curtains dangling from the sides. Armchairs with red fabric. A thick, patterned rug that seemed to stretch from one end of the room to the other.

Peter looked down at himself. At his tattered shirt, trousers. Mud and ash-streaked shoes. Mud and ash-streaked hands. Blood still dripping down the side of his face, blood probably darker than the red armchairs. It would probably stain.

Peter forced himself up, keeping a hand pressed to his head. He imagined being kicked out—Aunt _May _being kicked out—because of the mess Peter had left behind. Dread filled Peter's lungs, and he couldn't even trust himself to let out a breath. Could a breath stain the room the same way blood did? Peter imagined his breath taking on color, slowly spreading tendrils of dark red or grey or brown into the otherwise clear atmosphere in this room.

"What are you doing?"

Peter lifted his eyes to find Tony standing in the doorway, one hand holding a small bag and the other a glass of water.

"I—" Peter pressed his hand against his face hard enough to leave an imprint. "I didn't want to mess up the room."

"What?" Tony stared. "You don't—" Tony shook his head. "Just sit down," he said, jerking his head at the armchair.

"Where's Aunt May?" Peter asked, not budging.

"Pepper's taking care of her," Tony replied.

"Pepper?"

"Ms. Potts," Tony said. "She's my assistant." When Peter still didn't sit, Tony added, "She's quite talented in the medical basics, I can assure you. She's already called for a doctor, but he'll take some time to get here. As of now, however…" He lifted the kit and water. "We're doing what we can. Now sit down."

Peter looked down at the armchair and looked back up at Tony. "Can we go somewhere else?" he asked. "I don't want to—"

"No. _Sit_," Tony said, and he said it with so much force that Peter's knees buckled against his will. He fell against the armchair limply, though he kept his hand pressed to his face. He looked back up at Tony for confirmation.

Tony, in response, only raised an eyebrow before making his way towards Peter. He handed the glass of water to Peter. "Drink," Tony said, and Peter quietly tipped the glass back. He tried not to drink the water so fast as to not choke and spray water all over the room, but despite his best efforts, the water was gone in a matter of seconds.

"Now let's see it," Tony said, nodding at Peter's hand. "Come on."

Peter pressed his lips together. "I can…do this myself, sir," he said, flicking his eyes up at Tony. His face warmed as he met Tony's steady gaze. "What I mean is that you don't need to trouble yourself." Peter tried not to look away again, but it was difficult not to, with Tony's eyes still trained on him. Peter wondered briefly if anyone had ever been able to stare for longer than Tony Stark, and then he wondered if this was why Tony Stark was so successful—no one could help but shrink when someone like Tony Stark took up space.

"It's not that I'm grateful, either," Peter said quickly. "I am, sir. But you can go, since I'm sure you're busy." Peter felt the words rushing out of him now, each one toppling over the other into a clumsy catastrophe. "And I'm sorry about barging in. I didn't know—I _didn't know _what else to do, and my friend couldn't hold too many more people in the room, and Aunt May's arm's broken, which is bad, because then she might not be able to work, and I walked all the way here—" Peter's breath hitched, and he broke off with a fit of coughing. The floor spun underneath him as he bent over, and Peter heard Tony saying something from above him, but he couldn't make out the words above the blood rushing to his head.

"Wait a minute," Peter finally heard Tony say, and a few moments later, Peter made out the glass of water hovering before his eyes. "Drink slowly," Tony said from somewhere beside him, and this time, Peter only drank about half the glass before setting it down.

"Sorry," Peter said, staring at the ground. The warmth in his cheeks had doubled into an almost unbearable heat at this point.

"You say sorry when you step on someone's toe or when you spill tea on someone's lap," Tony said, pulling up a chair in front of Peter. The kit was still in one of his hands. "Not when you need help, which you do, in case you haven't noticed." Tony opened the kit and tugged out a roll of bandages. "So let's try this again, shall we?"

And Peter wasn't sure what it was then—a mix of exhaustion or relief or something else, but Peter dropped his hand and bent his head forward.

"There we go," Tony said, reaching up to the wound with a cloth. Peter closed his eyes as Tony wiped his head. "I've discovered over time that head wounds only have a tendency to bleed heavily, but nothing much more." Tony cast a look down at Peter. "Unless, that is, you suddenly see large butterflies or birds flying around this room right now."

Peter managed a small smile. "No, sir."

"Well, that's a relief," Tony said, wrapping the bandage around Peter's head. "Because bird poop is incredibly difficult to clean out, and I don't think Ms. Potts would be too fond of keeping a large collection of butterflies at the moment." He pulled away from Peter and nodded at his shirt. "Any more?"

Peter lifted at the torn parts of his shirt. His own hand felt foreign to his skin after spending so much time only feeling blood and the weight of May's slumped body against him. His fingers skimmed over his torso, and even at the lightest touch, pain flared up from his side. "Don't know," he mumbled, dropping his hand on his lap.

Tony looked at him. "Don't know isn't exactly an answer." He nodded again at Peter. "No need to be shy right now."

Peter swallowed and lifted the hem of his shirt. He watched Tony's reaction—and to his surprise, the man didn't so much as flinch. Instead, Tony only leaned in close and examined Peter's torso with the same focus Peter suspected he might give towards a broken machine.

"Some bruising," Tony said, and Peter didn't miss the way the man's shoulders seemed to sink a little, as though the entire body was unfolding. "Nothing serious, but the doctor will still have to look at it when he gets here." Tony sat back from Peter and, placing his hands on his lap, asked, "What happened, exactly?"

Peter swallowed. "I don't know," he replied. He looked at the space behind Tony's shoulder. "Just…one minute, I was talking to May, and the next…" He gingerly brought a hand up to his head again, as though he could feel the weight of brick there. "Everything was gone."

"Did you see any more survivors?"

Peter looked at Tony. The man was watching him carefully, but there was something new in his eyes—an almost frantic, desperate shine seemed to gleam in Tony's gaze now. "Did you see anyone alive?" he asked, his voice quiet. "Anyone at all?"

Peter saw the cramped, small space of Ned's apartment, shrunken down to be even more cramped and small in the midst of all of the semi-conscious, aching bodies. Peter saw the little girl wandering around for her mother. Peter saw the detached limbs just a mere steps away from his feet.

"Were there?" Tony repeated.

Peter swallowed. "There were a lot of people," he said. "But I don't know if…" His voice drifted.

"Don't know if what?" Tony asked. When Peter shook his head, Tony gestured. "You started a sentence, so you might as well finish it."

Peter drew his shoulders inward. He stared at Tony's forehead as he replied, "I'm not sure if that's necessarily a good thing. About a lot of people. And I don't think if they think it's a good thing, them staying alive. They…" He thought about May when she looked down at her broken arm. "Some of them might not be able to work, and that's as good as done for them."

Tony stiffened. "I see," he murmured, turning to the window. Peter lowered his gaze down to Tony's hands. One of them was shaking just the slightest, but when Tony turned his head, Peter jerked his gaze away from the hand.

"The funny thing is, Peter," Tony said, his eyes meeting Peter's, "although…" He smiled briefly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "What I mean, of course, is that this isn't funny at all." He looked down at his hand, and covered the trembling with his other hand. Peter pretended not to notice, but it was hard, with Tony's hand still twitching. "The journalists are saying that they found evidence of weapons made by Stark Industries at the explosion site."

Peter stared. The shaking in Tony's hand had grown enough that Peter could fully see it now, but he tried not to focus on it. Instead, he kept his eyes on Tony Stark, whose gaze now suddenly alternated between Peter and the window, as though the man, too, didn't know where to look.

"I don't know why," Tony said at last. "I know I didn't do it, but someone else within Stark Industries could have. Must have," he corrected. "The police and a friend of mine are looking into it, but for now…" He looked at Peter. "I'm sorry this had to happen to you and your aunt."

Peter took in the tremble in Tony's hand, and for the first time—and maybe this was because of the now slowly brightening room, but Peter noticed how pale Tony was.

"But you didn't do it," Peter said at last. "If you didn't do it, then you don't…" He lifted his shoulders. "You shouldn't be the one apologizing. The person who did this should."

His words hung in the space between them, and then, quietly, Tony said, "We'll find the person."

Peter tried for a smile, but Tony didn't smile back.

"You should get some rest," Tony said at last, standing up. "Or…are you hungry?"

Peter shook his head. A part of hi knew he should be hungry by now—he had grown accustomed to hunger for as long as he could remember—but he felt nothing but numbness. "I don't need anything," he said. "I just…" He stood up slowly, careful not to fall over this time. "Can I see May now? Even if the doctor's not here yet, I just…" Peter swallowed. "I want to make sure she's alright."

Tony's face softened, and for a moment, Peter thought he might have seen a smile on the man's face, after all. But then Tony said, "I don't know if she'll be awake—she was unconscious when Pepper was tending to her."

"That's fine," Peter said, even though he felt something cold settle at the bottom of his stomach. "I just…" He looked up at Tony. "We've only got each other," he said quietly.

"No parents?"

Peter shook his head. "They died when I was little," he replied. At the slightest furrow in Tony's brow, Peter quickly added, "I don't remember too much of them. I was lucky, though—Uncle Ben took me in almost immediately after he found out." His chest tightened. "And Aunt May—she and I technically aren't related by blood—but she was happy, too."

"And your uncle?" Tony asked. "Where is he?"

Peter tried to focus on a single spot of the brightening room. "There was an accident," he only said. "Some people got into a fight, and…" His voice drifted. He remembered walking into the apartment that day and finding May curled forward against the floorboards, her whole body wracking with sobs like it was the end of the world. Peter remembered the terrible, awful keening noise coming from her, and then he remembered blindly tearing out of the apartment, stumbling past adults and children until he found the retreating backs of two police officers. Peter remembered catching up to them and asking them what had happened, why his aunt was crying so hard, and then he remembered the sad look the policemen exchanged with one another before explaining the news, and then he remembered wishing that he was naïve enough to at least hope that the policemen were lying, but of course, Peter couldn't even make that wish, because he knew that people died at even the drop of a shoe. Peter remembered making his way back to the apartment and crashing against his aunt. Peter remembered wrapping his arms around his aunt's trembling body and feeling tears slide down his own cheeks and wishing that the day would just end.

"You don't have to explain anything," Tony said. When Peter re-focused on Tony, he was already turning back around. "Let's go see your aunt."

* * *

May was in a bedroom that was bigger than Peter and Ned's apartments combined.

As soon as Peter's shoes met carpet, he couldn't help but feel the same foreign, otherworldly sensation of thinking that even his breath could stain the air. Peter paused in the doorway, and if it hadn't been for the fact that Tony turned around to beckon him forward, Peter figured he would have stayed in that doorway for the rest of the time.

And when Peter finally walked into the room, he found that there was already someone else—two someone elses—standing by May's side. One was a woman with her hair twisted into a bun, while the other was a short man wearing spectacles.

The man was talking to the woman in low, hushed tones, but as Peter walked forward, he managed to catch the words "bed rest" and "country air" before the conversation wound down to a stop.

"Doctor, Ms. Potts," Tony said, stopping a little ways from May's bedside, "this is Peter. The patient's nephew."

The woman's eyes shifted towards Peter, and Peter stared back, wondering if he was perhaps as dirty as he felt. The woman examined him carefully, and this time, Peter wondered if she could see right through him.

Then the woman gave Peter a small smile, and Peter, before he could stop himself, managed a small smile back before asking, "How is she?" He looked down at May, who was indeed still sleeping. The dirt and ash had been scrubbed away from her face, and her arm was wound around tightly with bandages. "Will she…?"

"She will heal in time," the doctor said. "And she will heal faster if she takes full advantage of rest."

"Which she will have," the woman—Ms. Potts, Peter figured—said with a pointed look at Peter, and he felt something unclench inside of him.

"And you have another patient to check on, Doctor," Tony said, jerking his head towards Peter. "Head wound. Some bruising."

"Well," the doctor said, eyeing Peter over his spectacles, "it's a good thing that I haven't got anywhere else to go today."

* * *

Even after the doctor left, Peter stayed by May. His aunt still slept, her face—for once—completely free of worried wrinkles.

"Your aunt will stay be here if you rest," Tony said from the doorway.

Peter jerked his head up. "Mr. Stark," he said, quickly standing up, but Tony waved him back down. Peter plopped back down in his seat. "I…thank you again," Peter said as Tony walked up to the bed. "You didn't have to…thank you."

"Your aunt will heal," Tony only said, pocketing his hands. "And for now, this is probably the best place for her." Tony cleared his throat. "And we have a room ready for you as well—the one right next to hers."

Peter stared. "What?"

"We can't just keep your aunt and leave you out on the street," Tony said, though he wasn't looking at Peter. "And you're still injured. Pepper—Ms. Potts and I came to an agreement that for now, this would be the best arrangement." Tony took his hands out of his pockets. "And you'll have to start working soon, anyways, so you might as well get used to a new kind of environment."

"A new environment?" Peter asked.

"Training for the new job," Tony explained. He nodded down at Peter. "Haven't forgotten about that offer already, have you?"

Peter felt a jolt up his spine. "I—no, of course not," he said, trying hard to keep the excitement from his voice.

"Good." Tony's eyes flitted away from Peter. "I'll leave you with your aunt, then." He cleared his throat. "Tomorrow."

Peter smiled to himself as Tony walked out of the room. "Tomorrow."

* * *

**A/N: **_As always, comments/constructive criticism are always appreciated! I promise you that every time I read any of your comments, it brightens my day so much, especially in the midst of my hectic schedule-so thank you for the ongoing support. _


	7. SEVEN

**SEVEN. **

Pepper was waiting for Tony in his study.

"Well," Tony said, making his way to his desk, "we've had quite the morning, haven't we?" He rifled through some letters, the words blurring before his eyes. "A surprise call from Detective Romanoff and Captain Rogers—_Captain_, can you believe it?" He didn't wait for Pepper's response as he went on, "And a surprise visit from the boy who somehow managed to pick the watch out of my pocket, and then an unexpected call for the doctor and…" He drummed his finger lightly against the letters, perhaps too many times and too loud for even his own ears. "Ah, yes—some rather disturbing news about someone who potentially infiltrated Stark Industries and blew up a sector of the city." He looked up at Pepper. "Have I missed anything?"

When Pepper didn't respond right away, Tony lifted his hands. "Perhaps my father's ghost will come calling out of Hell tonight." Tony let out a sharp, short laugh that seemed to staccato the otherwise palpable silence. "We'd have quite the dinner party, don't you think?" He looked at Pepper, who still hadn't said anything or moved from her spot by the desk. "This is where you tell me that I've got a wonderful sense of humor."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," Pepper replied. She bent down and swept the letters and contracts into her hands. For a few moments, the only sounds in the room were the gentle rushes of parchment against wood. Tony waited, one hand still pressed against the desk while the other hung at his side. He waited for Pepper to look back up, maybe look him in the eye and tell him off—she would do that sometimes, but now, the silence radiating off of Pepper suggested anything but such would happen today.

A strand of hair had fallen from the side of Pepper's face, the curl just barely touching the curve of her chin as she reached across the desk for another letter. Like the rest of her hair, the small strand reminded Tony of the color of candlelight—red, perhaps, but not at all the deep, blood-red scarlet Natasha had. Pepper's hair was a softer red, bordering on shades of warm yellow and orange that mimicked the glow of a street light or the last breaths of a candle.

That curl bobbed alongside Pepper's chin, but if she was bothered by it, she didn't show it. Tony lifted a hand, just barely letting it float above the table. He imagined, briefly, pushing the curl to the side of Pepper's face, letting his hand rest on the curve of her cheek before dropping his hand back to his side. He imagined Pepper looking at him with a small smile, imagined himself smiling back.

When Pepper looked up, Tony dropped his hand.

"Are you alright?" Pepper asked at last.

"Perfectly fine," Tony responded. "As always."

A small wrinkle appeared between Pepper's eyebrows. Two perfectly parallel lines, a set of railroads. "Not always," she said. She hoisted the parchment up to her chest. "Detective Romanoff and Captain Rogers said they'll figure things out." Her eyes were fixed on Tony's. "You've said that they've never disappointed you before."

"I've said that _Romanoff _hasn't ever disappointed me before," Tony said, tapping his finger against the desk. Not quite as hard as last time, but still hard enough to let the tap-tap-tapping of his finger fill the quiet. "Rogers is a different story."

"But he's trying to help your right now," Pepper said softly. "That has to count for something, surely. He wouldn't be helping unless he didn't want to."

Tony turned his eyes to the desk. "Is there anything else you wished to tell me, Ms. Potts?" He knew what Pepper was doing—knew what she was trying to get, knew what point she had been trying to make about Steve (she had been through the whole situation, after all), but Tony couldn't even find the words. He didn't know if he would ever want to find the words.

"The boy."

Tony looked back up at Pepper. She tilted her head towards the door. "You mentioned before that the boy who managed to take the watch out of your pocket is here. And that was him?"

"Ah," Tony said, digging his hand into his pocket. He withdrew the small pocket watch, warmth speeding up his arm. He held it out in front of Pepper, watching her eyes widen just the slightest. "He returned it last night," Tony said. "If you could believe it."

"He returned it?" Pepper repeated, staring at the watch. "But—"

"Said his aunt made him do it," Tony said, and for what felt like the first time that day, he smiled a smile that didn't feel heavy. "A funny kid, really. But also intelligent."

"How do you figure?" Pepper asked, meeting Tony's eyes. "He…" she paused. "He's not from around these parts." She wasn't asking a question.

"No," Tony said, closing the pocket watch. "Not at all. But he works with machinery. He was able to make some sense of the blueprints right in this office, actually. And anyone who manages to get out from under me is quick, guaranteed. So I hired him." He waited for Pepper's reaction—waited for her to drop the documents or walk out of the room, but Pepper did nothing of the sort.

"He was polite," was all Pepper said. "And he cares for his aunt a great deal."

"Meaning?"

Pepper readjusted her grip on the letters. "Meaning that he isn't at all the villainous youth that people are always raving about these days," she said. "_Meaning_ I think he would be a good addition to Stark Industries."

_If Stark Industries is still standing after this mess, _Tony thought.

"If he still wants to say," was what Tony said instead.

A corner of Pepper's lips quirked upwards. "He'll stay, Tony." Tony blinked in surprise. Pepper calling him by his name twice in one day—practically unheard of. She only ever called him by his name either when things had gone terribly wrong or when things had gone terribly right. (Tony's parents' funeral. The fight with Steve. Tony's birthday. This morning. Now.)

But Pepper wasn't looking at Tony. She shuffled the documents near her chest. "Enough of us have stayed for you to know that by now." She paused, and quickly averting Tony's gaze, she held up the pile of parchment. "I'll send these now. Is there anything else you would like, Mr. Stark?"

Something inside of Tony fluttered at Pepper's eyes, at the gentle smile still curving her lips. He cleared his throat. "No," he said. After a beat, he added hastily, "Thank you, Ms. Potts."

"Of course." Pepper nodded. "If you need anything more, you know where to find me."

"Of course," Tony echoed. And with that, Pepper gave another slight bob of the head before turning on her heel and walking out. She didn't look back at him as she closed the door, and long after Pepper was gone, Tony lowered himself into his seat. He rested his elbows on the desk and let a long breath escape his lips.

The room felt larger and emptier now that his assistant was not in the room. Not that Tony Stark always took great notice of these sorts of things.

* * *

The sounds of a great rumbling from outside was what forced Tony to look up from his desk and turn towards the windows. And, his heart plunging, Tony registered a gathering of men carrying cameras and note pads, pens poised at the ready. Tony hovered at the window, one hand resting on the sill as he took in the jostling and pressing and shoving of the men below him.

Tony drew back from the window. "For goodness' sake," he muttered, and he stormed out of his office. He slammed the door unapologetically behind him and made his way to the stairs. Even from the top of the stairs, Tony could hear the ruckus of the journalists. Tony made his way into the foyer, fighting down the mixture of both annoyance and dread rising in him. Of course, Tony had dealt with journalists before. Of course, Tony had dealt with strange men following him on the streets to take a picture. OF course, of course, of course—he remembered the first time he had gotten angry at a photographer. He had been sixteen years old, a fresh face in the legendary Stark Industries that his father had built. The photographer had been following him for a few blocks, and Tony had just to spend some time with his mother. The photographer had yelled something—Tony couldn't remember the exact wording of it now, but he remembered seeing the tears silently streaming from his mother's cheeks, and then Tony had whirled around and tossed the camera out of the man's grips. He had thrown the camera as hard as he could to the ground, and the next morning, Tony's father had to settle the dispute. "You need to grow up," Tony's father had told him in that thin, harsh voice he always used. "And look, you've upset your mother."

Tony had wanted to point out that his mother always looked upset these days, but he couldn't bring himself to say those words, not with his mother still crying in the corner of the room. So he had pressed his lips together and nodded, trying hard to resist the urge to ask his father why the photographer had been so intent on bothering his mother about what his father did during late nights at the office.

Tony stood in front of the door now, taking in the thudding and thumping from the other side. He supposed Natasha had already warned him, but the reporters were here faster than Tony had anticipated. Tony reached for his pocket watch. He gave the metal a tight squeeze. A part of him whispered to bring Pepper down here—she was always better when it came to dealing with the press, and yet.

And yet.

Tony sucked in a breath. Squared his shoulders. Tightened his grip on the pocket watch.

Pepper Potts wasn't the face of Stark Industries, and Tony wasn't going to ask her to act as one for the sake of today.

Tony pushed open the door.

The flash and crackle of cameras was what Tony registered first. For a moment, all Tony could see were white and yellow lights, occasionally punctured by the black of a camera or the faded brown of a journalist's suit.

And then came the sounds—rushing, raging sounds that was a jumbled mess of questions and demands and accusations that flooded Tony's veins with ice. The words flung at him sounded "murder" and "deadly" and "repercussions" and "irresponsible". The faces that met Tony's were all made of stone, angry facial expressions etched in too deep for Tony to discern anything even vaguely recognizable as human.

Tony heard himself speak, but he couldn't make sense of the words coming out of his own mouth. His heart pounded too loudly in his ears; the journalists seemed to fade in and out of focus. A pigeon flew somewhere overhead, and Tony wanted to see where the bird was going, but the sun had suddenly come out of the clouds, and he couldn't look up without getting blinded by the harsh rays.

"Are you claiming responsibility for the casualties?" a journalist shouted, snapping Tony out of his reverie.

Tony blinked. He found himself staring still at the mass of journalists before him, some with notepads still flipped open, others frantically scribbling down what Tony knew was his every movement, every twitch, every half-breathed out word.

"I never gave any order for Stark Industries to release any weapons," Tony said at last. "As far as I'm concerned, the person who somehow got ahold of Stark Industries technology is, by all means, deranged and a danger to be dealt with by the police." He looked at one of the journalists in the eye. He couldn't remember if it was that journalist who had asked the question, but it didn't matter. "And by me."

"But if Stark Industries created these weapons, wouldn't that make you still responsible?" someone shouted—Tony couldn't see where this question came from, but those words ignited another round of yelling from the crowd.

Tony's chest tightened. He reached for his pocket watch. Squeezed it once, twice, three times.

And yet, the voice that came out of Tony was forced steady. The voice that Tony had used when delivering the briefest of eulogies at his parents' funeral. The voice that Tony had used when he told Steve to get out of the office.

"The weapons made in Stark Industries have only ever been made with the goal to protect American citizens," Tony said. "Those same weapons have protected countless lives, including the majority of those probably in this very crowd right now." There was an uncomfortable shift amongst the reporters, but Tony kept talking, solidifying his voice with each syllable. He was squeezing the pocket watch hard enough for his hand to hurt. "The second the weapons killed American citizens, they were no longer a part of Stark Industries, because that is _not _and will never be the purpose." His eyes swept over the journalists. "And whoever thinks otherwise can take that up with me personally," Tony said, lowering his voice. He nodded at a photographer. "That includes the psychopath who took Stark Industries technology." He jabbed a finger into the camera. "You want to mess with Stark Industries, then you're going to have to talk to me first." He lifted his arms at the building behind him. "I'm sure you can figure out where I live."

Tony dropped his arms back to his sides. The hand that had been squeezing the pocket watch was numb.

"And that is all I have to say," Tony said, and before the reporters could start up again, Tony retreated back into the building.

* * *

Tony woke up to hearing the window slide open.

And then, he heard a quiet, "Whoa."

Tony jerked his head up from his desk. "What—" He turned to find Peter leaning against the windowsill, a somewhat sheepish look on the boy's face.

"Sorry, Mr. Stark," the boy said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was outside this morning and…" He nodded at the door. "Door was locked."

"So you climbed through the window?" Tony asked, standing up. He looked down the window. They were a good thirty, forty feet up from the ground. "How did you—"

"I'm good at…climbing," Peter said. He held up his hands. "I could get around places pretty fast."

Tony pushed a hand up to his forehead. His head was spinning from staying up too late last night (or maybe earlier this morning, technically), and he couldn't quite adjust to the fact that there was a boy standing in his office after having apparently just climbed in. "Peter."

"Yes, sir?"

Tony blew out a long sigh. "Next time, you can just knock on the door."

Peter winced. "Yes, sir."

Tony shook his head, more to himself than to Peter. "So you climb extreme heights, get away from places faster than the average person, and apparently can get around machines. Anything else I should know about?"

Peter paused, as though he was actually mulling over the question. For all Tony knew, the boy probably _was _taking the question seriously. Then, shrugging, Peter replied, "I don't think so." His eyes flitted down to the blueprints on Tony's desk. "Were you…busy?"

"Something like that," Tony murmured, halfheartedly pushing away the blueprints. "Just some old plans."

"Old plans?" Peter asked, frowning, and before Tony could say anything, the boy was already lifting up the blueprints. Head tilted to the side, Peter's eyes skimmed over the document for a good few moments. Tony waited—waited and watched as Peter's eyes slowly widened.

"But Mr. Stark," Peter breathed, looking up at Tony, "this isn't a rocket."

"No," Tony said, taking the blueprint away from Peter. "Nothing of the sort."

Peter was still staring. "Is this…" He nodded down at the blueprint in Tony's hand. "What _was _that?"

Tony unfurled the blueprint in his hands. He stared down at the small sketch he had made—nothing much, just a collection of gears working together. A thick helmet. Something that looked almost like a welding mask. Armor.

"A side project," Tony said at last. He looked over at Peter. "That night," he said slowly, "when you came to return the pocket watch. You said you thought Stark Industries could make something more than rockets." When Peter nodded, Tony rolled the blueprint back up. "Something I've just been thinking about for a while myself. This," Tony said, tapping the blueprint, "was just a stab in the dark."

"Didn't look like just a stab in the dark," came Peter's quiet reply. The boy's eyes were dark, maybe even a little darker than Tony's. "Mr. Stark, what _was _that?"

Tony tapped the blueprint against the side of his desk. He looked between the scroll to Peter, then back to the scroll again. "I'm still trying to figure that out," Tony replied. He looked at Peter. "Stark Industries has always been about weapons. Mostly about weapons." He puffed out a sigh. "Something my father started. Stark Industries' grand destiny, if you believe in that kind of nonsense. Which I don't." Tony wrapped his hand around the end of the blueprint. "I've had the idea of trying to move away from that idea about weapons for some time now. I just didn't think there'd be a time when moving away from weaponries would actually be necessary."

"Necessary?"

Tony looked over at Peter. "Someone took technology from Stark Industries and used it to hurt people," he said. "That's enough evidence that there's a time to move onto other things. Starting with this." He watched Peter's expression carefully. "Was this what you were expecting when I hired you at all?"

Peter only lifted his shoulders. "To be honest, sir," he said, "I wasn't sure what I was expecting at all." Then, reaching across the desk for another part of the blueprint, Peter asked, "So what is it that you want me to do, Mr. Stark?"

Tony bit back a smile as Peter lifted his eyes up to him. The boy was still an oddity, Tony knew—and yet, the slight gleam in Peter's eyes felt too familiar to brush away.

"Well," Tony said, letting his own blueprint unfurl on the desk, "I was thinking of this…"

* * *

The hours flew by almost too quickly. Peter was easier to work around than Tony had thought. The boy caught the materials Tony threw him with the ease of someone who could have only been doing this kind of work for his whole life. Peter's hands were quick, too—just as quick as Peter had claimed that first night.

There was a strange kind of rhythm around them now, too. Tony, moving around Peter to grab something; Peter, moving around Tony to grab something. Peter, occasionally muttering something under his breath as he tried to fit one piece into another. Peter, humming a little whenever something went right and muttering some more if something went wrong. Peter, occasionally shooting Tony a glance that Tony pretended not to notice but noticed anyways, because that boy's eyes were as wide and as innocent as a fawn's.

When Pepper knocked on his door, Tony almost didn't notice until Peter lifted his head up from the desk.

"I think there's someone at the door," Peter said, and Tony, head still somewhat woolly from spending the entire day in the same room, managed to make his way to the door.

And he found Pepper, already thrusting some envelopes into his hands.

"More invitations to the charity gala," she said. "And in case you're interested, there have been articles about you in the papers."

"About my spontaneous press conference, I assume," Tony said dryly, accepting the envelopes.

"One journalist remarked that you were rather adamant about whoever infiltrated Stark Industries," Pepper commented. Her voice was level, surprisingly so. "You could have called me to help."

Tony braced on a smile, pocketing the envelopes. "I didn't want to trouble you."

"Your _job _is to trouble me," Pepper said, exasperated. She shook her head. "Just—" Only Tony never got to figure out what Pepper was going to say next, because then she craned her neck over Tony's shoulder and asked, "Have you been working in here with the boy this whole time?"

"With Peter?" Tony asked. "Yes, I have. He's rather talented."

"And rather tired." Pepper nodded, and Tony turned around.

Peter's head rested against the desk, one hand still curled around a pen while the other lay flat against the blueprint. Peter's whole body rose and fell in a quiet rhythm—so quiet in comparison to the boy's otherwise talkative manner.

"I see." Tony said, lowering his voice as to not wake Peter.

"You two could both use some proper rest," Pepper murmured. When Tony turned around, Pepper only pointed at Tony's cheek. "You've got imprints on your face from sleeping on your desk the last few nights," she explained. She flicked her eyes over to Peter, and something in her gaze softened. "And I have a feeling Peter could use with some more rest, too."

"Hasn't he been…?" Tony thought about how Peter had mentioned how he had been up early in the morning, how he had come in through the window looking disheveled, and Tony's stomach sank. He wondered if Peter had gotten any sleep at all.

"I'll…" Tony turned around to Peter. The boy looked peaceful, for once. "Move him to his room, I suppose."

"Can you do that without waking him?" Pepper's voice had lowered even further, as though anything above a whisper would wake the boy up.

"I'll try." Tony left the door and made his way over to Peter.

Peter didn't even stir as Tony brought a tentative arm underneath the boy's legs. Tony paused, waiting for Peter to open his eyes, but when Peter didn't, Tony still couldn't move. He felt the boy's warmth, felt the boy's breath against his own skin. Peter's face, for once, didn't seem to have as nearly as much weariness in it as it had in the last few days, and only now did Tony finally register how young the boy was. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, maybe seventeen at the oldest.

"Mr. Stark?" Pepper called from the door, her voice still hushed.

Tony lifted his head. Pepper had one foot through the door, the other still waiting in the hallway. "Would you like some help?" she whispered.

Tony found his voice. "It's fine," he replied, just barely able to keep his voice hovering above a whisper. And with that, he hoisted Peter up in his arms. A small moan escaped Peter's lips, and his head lolled back against Tony's chest.

Tony sucked in a breath, waiting for Peter to jerk awake—waiting for Peter to maybe fall out of Tony's grip. But Peter settled back into sleep, his head curling forward as though he was a younger child than he actually was.

"Look at that," Pepper said quietly. "All fast asleep." She smiled at Tony. "And you're able to carry him?"

"Don't look so surprised," Tony said. Careful not to jostle Peter around, Tony took a few steps forward. Peter was surprisingly heavier than Tony thought, and he fell back a half-step, trying to catch his balance with the newly added weight. He heard Pepper move forward, but Tony shook his head over Peter's head.

"Just a little heavy," Tony whispered. And warm. Peter—or other people, really—was much warmer than Tony had anticipated, too. He could feel Peter's body heat practically burning through his clothes and into Tony's.

"Move," Tony whispered, nodding at Pepper, who was still in the doorway.

Pepper took a step into the hallway as Tony made his way through the door. Making sure to not knock Peter's legs against the doorframe, Tony turned and started his way down to one of the guest rooms. Or the guest room assigned to Peter. Peter's room.

"I came to talk to you about the charity gala," Pepper said softly, her stride matching with Tony's. "I need to let the hosts know who you're taking with you."

Tony paused. "Right now?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low.

"Well, not right this instant, but soon." Pepper pressed her lips together, looking less amused now. "The sooner you reply, the better. We both know that you need to…" She hesitated.

Tony looked at the wall. "Just say it. I know what you're thinking—we're both thinking it."

"Well," Pepper said quietly, "you need to improve your image."

"I didn't blow up those buildings, Pepper."

"I know." Pepper said, and it sounded like a plea. "I _know_, Tony. But these things…" She shook her head. "You know how delicate the situation is."

"Too delicate," Tony muttered.

"So?" Pepper asked. "Do I have any names I should write down?"

Tony adjusted his grip on Peter. "Well, you're down, obviously," he said, trying to keep his voice light—or maybe that was just because he had been holding Peter for a little longer than what he was comfortable with, but either way, he was relieved to find Pepper smile.

"Obviously," Pepper echoed. "Anyone else?"

A soft moan rose up from Peter, causing both Tony and Pepper to look down at him. But Peter was still asleep, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his body wound even tighter in Tony's arms. Tony could see beads of sweat dotting his forehead, see the way his chest rose and fell with an alarming rate. "Pepper—"

"Bedroom," Pepper prompted, and without another word, both Tony and Pepper walked down quickly to the guest room. As soon as they were inside, Pepper walked forward and pulled away the bed covers. Tony lowered Peter into the bed, and to his relief, Peter sank into the mattress with ease.

"Poor kid," Tony murmured, looking down at Peter. "He's been through a lot in the last few days." He let out a small scoff and turned to Pepper. "Granted, some of that stuff was based on his own actions—pickpocketing and the like, but…" He looked back down at Peter. "He's not a brat." A corner of his lips tugged upwards, and an idea came to him.

"Add Peter to the list," he said. "Add his aunt, too—he'd feel better about that." He pocketed his hands and felt his watch sitting nestled in his palm. "Yeah," Tony said out loud, turning to Pepper, who was already scribbling down on a note. "They'll come to the gala with us too."

* * *

**A/N: **_So I know rockets weren't a totally big thing in the 19th century, but I did find out that the rockets that were made were still pretty functional. Nowhere as near as advanced as the ones developed later, of course, but still somewhat around. And let's be honest, you guys-if Tony Stark lived in the 19th century, he'd still make a way to build stuff with what he's got. So I'm sorry if maybe the technology bit isn't 100% accurate, but I'm trying my best. _

_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always welcome! (Although I just ask that you please be gentle in terms of the technology because again, I'm also somewhat basing this off the idea if Tony Stark was in this time period.) _


	8. EIGHT

**EIGHT. **

Peter couldn't remember the last time he felt this warm. Or this _soft_.

He let out a small sigh, nestling his cheek closer to the pillow. Any minute now, he knew he would wake up. And things would melt back into the normal state of things. He would wake up on the ground or on the roof, and this warm, pleasant sensation would quickly be replaced by the chill and concrete.

Grey light filtered underneath Peter's eyelids, and he squeezed his eyes tighter, willing the brightness to fade. He willed his body to sink back into blissful, ignorant sleep, but it was too late. His body was already awake, which meant so must the rest of Peter.

And then Peter opened his eyes.

Not to his apartment or to the top of a building, but to a large, lavishly furnished room with red and dark brown furniture. To a room lined with curtained windows and paintings of the city. Peter propped himself up on his elbows and practically sank right back into the mattress.

"What…" Peter peered down at the white—almost blindingly white—sheets. He hadn't thought there could be anything quite as soft. Despite himself, Peter felt the beginnings of a smile crawl onto his face. He lifted his head up at the high ceiling. No leakages, no grey concrete. Just a ceiling of clean, painted white.

"Good morning, Peter."

Peter quickly turned away from the ceiling. He found Pepper at the door, her hands folded in front of her. He hadn't heard her come near, and Peter's face flushed at what he must have looked like just seconds ago, gawking at the bed and the ceiling like an idiot.

"Good morning," Peter said, pushing the blankets away. "I—is everything alright? How's May?"

"She's well on her way for a good recovery," Pepper replied with a slight nod of the head.

Peter let out a small breath of relief. "That's good," he said. "I…" He regarded Pepper from the bed. He hadn't spoken much to the woman at all since yesterday, not since Pepper had assured him that May wouldn't be moved. After that, Peter had only seen Pepper in the periphery—going to Tony's office, walking outside of the building to answer to some reporters, and strolling through the hallways arms laden with official-looking envelopes. Each time Peter had seen Pepper, she mostly looked busy. Not harried or frantic like some of the workers Peter had seen in the factories, but purposeful—as though each step Pepper took was meant to be, as if each step Pepper took was less of a way of moving herself and more so a way of moving the floor to meet her.

"Thank you," Peter said at last, hoping he sounded as sincere as he felt. "For May. And for everything else."

"You're rather welcome," Pepper responded, and she gave him the briefest of smiles before adding, "Mr. Stark has some plans for you today regarding Stark Industries. He's waiting downstairs at breakfast."

As if on cue, Peter's stomach growled. He pressed a hand against his stomach, hoping that Pepper couldn't hear the noise. "Plans?" he managed to ask.

"I understand that Mr. Stark has hired you recently," Pepper replied. "So he feels the need to familiarize you with the environment. There is also a gala tomorrow—a charity gala, which Mr. Stark has requested you make an appearance in."

Peter stared. "Charity gala?" he repeated, the words foreign in his mouth. "Why would he want me…?"

"Given the current circumstances of Stark Industries, we believe it might be a good idea for Mr. Stark to turn over some of the public opinion." For a moment, Pepper's face clouded over, and Peter felt guilt needle over the back of his neck. Of course, he should have realized that there were so many more things to be settled within Stark Industries.

"So I need to be there?" Peter asked.

"Mr. Stark has requested it," Pepper replied, and that seemed to end the conversation. She stepped out of the doorway and into the hallway. "Whenever you are ready."

"Now," Peter said, stumbling out of the bed. "I'm ready now."

* * *

When Peter reached the dining room, he found that there were multiple people already sitting around the table.

First, Tony, who was sitting at the head of the table with a plate of eggs and toast; the red-haired lady from the other day, who was twisting the edge of a napkin with much more attention than Peter figured the activity required; the broad-shouldered man also from the other day, who was pointedly scribbling something down on his notepad, and—

"May!" Peter exclaimed.

May lifted her head from her breakfast, eyes lighting up as soon as they landed on Peter. "You're awake," May said, standing up, but Peter was already wrapping his arms around her neck before she took even her first step.

"How are you?" Peter asked, quickly withdrawing his arms as he felt her bandages. "Does your arm still hurt? How did you sleep?"

May laughed, rubbing a hand over Peter's hair. "I'm fine, Peter," she said softly. "My arm will be fine."

"You gave him quite the scare," the red-haired lady drawled from the front of the table. She looked up from the napkin and gave Peter a crooked smile. There was something odd in the way she looked at Peter, as though she knew something that he didn't. And then, a moment later, the woman added, "I didn't think spiders were scared of anything, too."

Warmth crept up Peter's cheeks, but before May or he could say anything, the broad-shouldered man said, "Nat, don't tease the kid."

"Why not?" the woman asked, twisting the napkin around in her hands. She was shaping the napkin, Peter realized, and a moment later, a small napkin rabbit was sitting on the table. "Look at him—he seems too easy to tease."

"That's one of my new employees you're teasing, Romanoff," Tony said, and he looked up at Peter. The man only gave Peter a small nod, and the warmth in Peter's face went straight to his chest as he nodded back. Tony, clearing his throat, turned to the woman. "I'm pretty sure you had more important things to talk about than just teasing the…spiderling."

"Spiderling?" Peter repeated dubiously.

"I think we should go back to the matter at hand," the broad-shouldered man said, flipping his notepad closed. As the red-haired woman opened her mouth to say something, the man added pointedly, "By introducing ourselves _properly_."

The red-haired woman rolled her eyes. "Have it your way," she said, leaning into her seat. She lifted her eyes up at Peter and nodded. "Natasha Romanoff. Detective. Also happened to be the first one to know about your little hobby of pickpocketing."

Peter heard May inhale sharply, but Natasha waved a dismissive hand. "No need to get worried," she said, looking at May. "No one will know about your nephew's former pastime. And," she added, shooting a glance at Tony, who seemed suddenly more interested in his breakfast, "from what I've heard, your nephew has a new occupation, anyways."

"I didn't do it that often," Peter mumbled, but Natasha only gave him another one of those smiles that made him wonder if she knew more than she was letting on.

The broad-shouldered man cleared his throat. "And I'm Steve Rogers," he said, and walking around the table, he reached out a hand. He shook Peter's and May's hands with a brief, somewhat worn smile. "Police."

"Captain," Natasha called. "Come on, if I used my fancy title, you should, too."

May frowned. "And why exactly is there a police captain and detective here right now?" she asked, and even despite what Natasha had said, Peter felt May tug him closer. "Is there something wrong?"

"Not with your nephew, if that's what you're asking," Steve replied gently. He looked down at Peter. "What's your name, son?"

"Peter," Peter replied, surprised at how steady his voice sounded. He lifted his eyes to Steve. Peter hadn't met any police officers before, let alone police captains. He'd seen them from afar, mostly—men who shooed away the homeless from public spaces and blew their whistles a little too loudly and threatened to club people on the head if they didn't stop protesting right away.

But for some reason, Peter couldn't imagine Steve doing so, even with his broad shoulders. The captain's eyes were blue, mostly—or green or grey, Peter couldn't quite tell. But those eyes didn't seem menacing, and the way Steve had just called Peter 'son' hadn't seemed menacing, either.

"Well, Peter, you and your aunt can rest assured that this has nothing to do with your past," Steve said. He looked over his shoulder at Tony, but Tony's head was still ducked down. Peter saw the way Steve's chest drew in, as though the man was taking in a deep breath. "Rather," Steve said, turning back to Peter, "Detective Romanoff and I are here about the recent attack on your place of residence."

"The explosion," May said, her grip on Peter relaxing.

"Did any of you happen to notice anything suspicious before the explosion?" Steve asked, his eyes flicking between Peter and May. "Anything at all—someone not from the neighborhood around the apartment buildings, maybe?"

May blew out a breath. "There were lots of people living in that area, Captain Rogers," she said. "And I usually don't come back home from work until late."

"Ask the spider," Natasha called. "He has a way around rooftops—surely he saw something."

"His name's Peter," Steve said, exasperation just barely bleeding into his voice, but Peter was already shaking his head.

"I didn't see anything," he replied. "And I'm usually away from the apartment building during the day, too. And evenings…" An uncomfortable heat prickled at the back of his neck. "I was usually…um." He looked down at his feet.

"So you didn't see anything," Steve said quickly. He sighed. "Well, it was worth a shot asking."

Peter lifted his head. "Maybe you can ask some of the other survivors," he offered. "My friend Ned—he lives a few blocks away, and his family was taking care of some of the people who got out."

Steve took out his notepad. "Got an address for me?"

"Yeah," Peter replied, and as he rattled off the address, his eyes wandered back to Tony. The man seemed to be busy holding a staring competition with Natasha, who kept jerking her head at Steve. Tony shook his head, and then, rolling her eyes, Natasha gestured to Steve's back. Again, Tony shook his head. Then, Tony looked over at Peter, and feeling the heat at his neck intensify, Peter forced his gaze back on Steve's scribbling hand.

"Thank you," Steve said, snapping the notepad shut. "We might be able to find something."

"Good luck with the investigation," Peter only said, and Steve gave him a halfhearted smile in response. Then, walking back around the table, Steve tapped on Natasha's shoulder.

"Come on, Nat—we've got some more people to see," Steve said.

Natasha sighed and pushed herself out of the seat. Peter half-expected the woman to complain, but to his surprise, Natasha only pressed a hand against Tony's shoulder. And Tony lifted his head only by a degree to give Natasha a small nod.

"We'll figure this out sooner than later," Natasha said, though Peter wasn't sure who she was speaking to—May or Peter or Steve or Tony. "Just wait and see." She hoisted her coat off the chair she had been sitting in and drew it over her shoulders. "Have a nice day, everyone." She nodded at May, squeezed Tony's shoulder again, and lastly, flicked her eyes over at Peter.

Then she winked.

Before Peter could react, Natasha left the room, Steve following from behind.

"Have a good day," Steve echoed. He nodded at May and Peter. "Nice meeting you two officially." And then he nodded at Tony. "Mr. Stark."

"Captain," Tony said without looking at Steve.

And then Steve and Natasha were gone, and Tony finally looked over at Peter.

"Well," he said, standing up. "Have some breakfast. We've got a long day ahead of us."

"Yes, sir," Peter replied. He wished he had something else to say or something more to say, but before he could think of anything more, Tony left the room.

"So what are you planning to do today?" Peter asked, walking with May back to her room—or really, the guest room that Tony and Pepper had arranged for May. This all had to be temporary, Peter knew, even though Pepper had insisted on saying that Peter should escort May to _her room_, as though the room actually _was _May's. What it must feel like, Peter wondered, to be able to so easily throw names and possessions as though they were commonplace, was beyond him.

"I might drop in to see the other seamstresses," May replied. She lifted her arm. "Might as well let them know the news."

Peter stopped in his tracks. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked, searching May's face. "With your arm and…"

"Peter," May said, ruffling a hand through his hair, "I'll be perfectly fine. Ms. Potts even said she'd come with me."

"I just…" Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek. "What if that person who blew up our apartment is around the area? What if—"

"I'll be careful," May said, resting her hand on Peter's shoulder. "I can't exactly stay in here and hide all day, Peter."

"No," Peter said hastily. "But—"

"You're going out today too, aren't you?" May cut off. "And I'm not going to stop you."

"But that's different," Peter protested.

"Not entirely," May replied. "We're both returning to a place of work. Or to a new place of work, in your case." She tilted her head to the side and smiled. "It's sweet of you to worry, Peter—but we Parkers are made of strong stuff. We don't back down easily, now, do we?"

Peter managed a weak smile. Technically, May wasn't a Parker by blood, but whenever Peter mentioned that, May would wave away his argument. "I became a Parker the moment I married Ben," she would always say, and then Ben would laugh, and then Peter would join in because truthfully, he had the feeling May was made of stuff stronger than whatever stuff made up the Parkers.

Now, Peter gave May a small nod. "I'll see you later tonight, then?" he whispered.

"Later tonight," May replied. "I promise." She rubbed a thumb over Peter's cheek. "Besides, aren't you excited? Going with Mr. Stark to Stark Industries and meeting all kinds of new people—that doesn't happen every day."

Peter thought about how quickly Tony had left the dining room earlier that morning. His heart sank even at the mere memory. "I suppose…" he murmured.

May frowned. "Is something wrong?" she asked, still rubbing her thumb over Peter's cheek. "You don't seem as excited anymore."

Peter lifted his shoulders. "I want to be excited," he replied truthfully. "But Mr. Stark just seems to have…a lot on his mind right now." He paused. "Not that I blame him," he added. "I mean, he's thinking about a lot of things, too…"

"That's all it must be, Peter," May said. "But he's still bringing you along—so he must care at least a little about bringing you into the company."

"Maybe," Peter murmured. He met May's eyes and, when seeing the light fade a little from her face, Peter forced on a quick smile. "You're right. I should just…think more."

"Or think a little less," May said, wrinkling her nose. "I didn't mean to say it that way," she added at Peter's dubious look. "I mean that you need to make sure that you're not interpreting things the wrong way around Mr. Stark," she amended. "The man has a lot on his mind. We all do."

Peter nodded slowly, but his heart still hovered around the pit of his stomach, ready to drop further. "Right," he replied. He leaned over and pecked May on the cheek. "Have a good time, then," he said. "Get back here safe."

"You, too."

* * *

Peter stared up at the carriage. A part of him wanted to laugh out loud—of course, what did he expect Mr. Stark to travel around in?

But still, looking at the great horses and the deep red covers on the carriage, Peter couldn't help but catch his breath at the strangeness of it all. A moment later, the door swung open, and Peter stumbled back as Tony peered down at him from one of the seats in the carriage.

"Usually, this is when fellow passengers would get in," Tony said.

"Right," Peter said, hopping—_hopping?_—into the carriage with as much grace as he could muster. He seated himself into the seat opposite Tony just as the door closed behind him. Then there was the brisk snap of the reins, a short knicker from the horses, and then Peter jerked forward as the carriage started moving. Peter only just caught himself before he could hurtle head-first into Tony, and his cheeks warming, Peter pressed himself flat against the seat.

"Sorry," Peter said, curling his hands around the edge of the seat. "I'm not—I haven't—"

"One of my earliest memories riding a carriage was falling on my father's feet because I couldn't even reach the seat properly," Tony said, looking out the window. He looked to Peter, though Peter couldn't decipher the expression on the man's face. Not a happy expression, definitely, and Peter's stomach clenched. Then again, a small voice in Peter reasoned, Tony hadn't seemed at all happy since this morning. "Nearly everyone falls over in a carriage at least once in their life. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Oh." Peter said, and he decided this was a good thing, then. "That's nice to hear."

"Good," Tony replied, his eyes moving out the window. "Because you shouldn't keep apologizing for trivial things." He cleared his throat. "Did Ms. Potts let you know where we're headed?"

"Stark Industries," Peter replied promptly. "We're meeting with…some engineers?" Peter hadn't meant to make it sound as though he was asking a question, but he couldn't help himself. Pepper had been rather vague in her description of the day to Peter.

"I've got to take care of some matters," Tony replied. "So yes, that involves some of the other engineers."

"Is it about the investigation?" Peter asked before he could stop himself. He shrank a little in his seat as Tony turned his gaze back on him. "I just figured—"

"It is," Tony replied. He said those words as though he was surrendering. "Or, at least, part of the meeting is. The other part…"

"The blueprints in your office?" Peter asked, and again, Peter wished he could have just stopped the words from getting out before he thought. But this time, a corner of Tony's lips twitched.

"On the dot again," Tony only said. "Though I don't know how much of _those _plans we'll be able to discuss today." He nodded at Peter. "After all, I'm sure some of the engineers will be interested in who the new face is when you walk into the room."

"Do you usually introduce new…employees?" Peter asked, the word 'employee' feeling strange in his mouth. He couldn't use the word 'worker' somehow, not with Stark Industries. Workers were people who dealt with shouting labor masters and crushed fingers and haggard faces. Peter couldn't imagine the word ever applying to the branch of Stark Industries that Tony and he were heading.

"Sometimes," Tony replied. "If I'm the one personally hiring them."

Peter's mouth dried. "Do you usually personally hire people?" he asked.

"Only ever a few times," Tony said, his eyes back at the window. "Only ever if I'm impressed."

Peter smiled down at his hands. "I see," he said, his own voice nearly soundless to his ears.

The carriage jostled again, and this time, Peter managed to stay in his seat.

* * *

**A/N: **_I meant to update this yesterday as per the usual schedule, but I was traveling and the WiFi was a bit spotty when it came to accessing this site. Also, Tom Holland is officially back in the MCU-so we're getting our Spidey back! _

_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always appreciated! (Or, at the very least, drop a comment below to share the excitement that our spider boi is back with us!)_


	9. NINE

**NINE. **

"Whoa," Peter breathed behind Tony.

"Better than you imagined?" Tony asked over his shoulder as the two stepped into the lobby of the Stark Industries office. Peter's head was tilted all the way back—so far back that Tony suspected that if he even tapped the boy's forehead, he'd fall over.

"A lot…brighter," Peter said, blinking a few times at the chandeliers hanging down the ceiling. "And a lot…" His head slowly twisted from side to side, probably to take in the long expanse of marble flooring down the left and right. "Bigger."

"Well, don't waste all your breath here," Tony said, strolling forward to the elevators. "You've still got more to see." When he turned around, Peter was still standing in the middle of the lobby, head tilted back at the ceiling again. The boy's lips were slightly parted, his eyes wide and shining against the light of the chandeliers. Tony paused, his finger hovering over the button to call for the elevator as he took in Peter's lanky frame in the center of the lobby. At how bright Peter's face suddenly seemed, even despite everything in the last few days.

Tony didn't know whether to smile or roll his eyes. Because this was probably the first time Peter had ever set foot in an office building, and of course, his first instinct was to look at the number of lights there were in the room.

And yet, there was something remarkable about the way the light glinted off Peter's dark eyes, about how wide the boy's smile was.

Tony settled for pressing the button. "Peter," he called. "We've still got other things to do."

Peter dropped his head quickly, a brilliant scarlet rising in his cheeks. "Right," he said, hurrying over to Tony's side just as the elevator doors opened. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," Tony said, the words coming out faster than he had intended, but those words had spilled out anyways, because every time Peter apologized, Tony couldn't help but wonder when Peter started apologizing for every little thing that was even slightly out of place. His mother had been the kind of person who apologized at everything—a window left open for a little too long, a broken clock which the repairman hadn't fixed yet, the absence of a certain family member during mealtimes.

"Save your apologies for when they matter," Tony said now as Peter ducked his head. He tried to lighten his voice. "The next time you apologize for something silly, I'll make you sing opera in front of your aunt."

"Opera?" Peter asked, his face blank.

"Opera," Tony repeated. "It's this…" He waved a hand as the elevator doors slid back open with a slight _ding_. Relieved to not go on and explain the details of opera, Tony strode through the doors. Instantly, the familiar buzz of men comparing notes and the mechanical whir of machinery washed over Tony. For a moment, that gentle hubbub continued until one man looked up from his conversation and stopped talking. And after that, it was as though someone had thrown a stone into a pond, because the noise slowly died spreading outwards until the last person in the room—a janitor talking to someone at the far end of the wall—dropped a conversation.

Tony cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, everyone," he said, too-aware that his hands hung at his sides and that Peter was right behind him. "Starting today, we have a new employee with us—Mr. Peter Parker." Tony gestured to Peter, his hand just barely brushing past the boy's arm.

Peter, eyes wide, stared straight past Tony and to the men. For a moment, Tony worried that something had turned off in Peter's head.

But then Peter smiled—a small, shy smile—and waved weakly. "Hello," he said, his voice so quiet and so small in the large room. When no one said anything, Peter repeated a little louder, "Hello, everyone. It's…um…" Peter's eyes skirted over to Tony, who managed the briefest nod. Somewhat encouraged by the gesture, Peter nodded back. Tony saw Peter's Adam apple bob as he continued, "It's…a pleasure to be working here, and I…uh…" He rubbed a hand behind his neck for a second longer than was necessary. "I…can't wait to get started," Peter finished at last.

There was a low rumble throughout the room as the rest of the men looked over Peter. There were skeptical eyes, though Tony already expected that. Still, he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of annoyance at the way one of the engineers smirked at Peter's obvious discomfort.

"I expect you all to treat Mr. Parker in the traditional Stark Industries manner," Tony said over the din of the others. Meeting the eyes of some of the men who had been smirking at Peter just a moment ago, Tony added forcefully, "That means with _respect_."

This, at least, got some of those men to at least tool their expressions to something more humble, though Tony didn't miss the way their eyes still seemed to linger a little too long on Peter. And Tony didn't miss the way Peter seemed to shrink smaller and smaller beside him.

"That is all," Tony said, lowering his eyes from those men. "Carry on."

And with that, the rest of the floor slowly rumbled back to life with nonchalant chatter and murmured theorizing. Tony, on the other hand, turned to Peter. "Well," he said. "You're officially known to everyone here now. How does that feel?"

Peter's hands were in his pockets. "It's…" He swallowed again, and Tony was struck by how prominent an Adam's apple could be on one so young. Peter gave a nervous laugh. "Not exactly what I was expecting."

"For better or for worse?" Tony asked, but he never got to hear an answer because then one of the engineers—a scrawny little man whose nametag was too scratched up for Tony to see properly—came scurrying up.

"Sir," the man said breathlessly. "We received your plans just this morning through the mail."

"Good," Tony said. "Any thoughts?"

"Some," the man replied. "But sir, we're not sure if…" He hesitated, his eyes darting nervously around the room. They landed on Peter, briefly, and his eyebrows drew together into a thick little caterpillar on top of his eyes.

"Not sure if what?" Tony asked, trying to hide the impatience from his voice.

"Well…" the man drew out the word as thin as a tripwire. "Some of the others—not me, sir, certainly not me—were wondering if this was exactly where you wanted Stark Industries to go." When Tony didn't say anything right away, the man added, "It's just so…different, sir, than what we've built so far and—"

"And this is my company, not the others'," Tony replied, straightening his coat. He nodded at the group of men this engineer had just come away from. "And if anyone has a problem with that, then I suggest they go work for a different business."

The man's face paled. "Oh, no, sir, I'm sure they didn't mean—"

"It's not so much about meaning and more so about doing," Tony said, meeting the man in the eyes. The man shrank back a little. "Now, then. Those plans?"

"Right underway, sir," the man said with a little nod, and he went rushing back to the group.

"Was that about…?" Peter asked, turning to Tony with raised eyebrows.

"About yesterday's little brainstorming session?" Tony asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice this time. "I would think so."

"What did that man mean about…not being sure if this is where you wanted Stark Industries to go?" Peter asked.

"It's exactly what it sounds like," Tony replied. "Some people have different ideas—different opinions—on the things Stark Industries creates." Tucking his hands into his pockets, he nudged his head down the room. "We've got other people to see now."

"But don't you get the final say on these sorts of things?" Peter asked as they walked down the room. His eyes were flitting across the people and machines in the room, and though Peter's stride somehow matched Tony's, Tony could sense the way his gaze lingered on each and every little thing. A few times, Peter's feet nearly tripped over the other, and each time, Tony tried to slow down, but then Peter would stumble back up to his side as though nothing had happened.

_Really_, Tony mused. _Peter can climb in through windows but he can't even walk around with getting distracted. _

"Technically, I do," Tony replied. "Most of the time." He nodded at a group of engineers who had lifted their heads in unison at Tony. Though their smiles were friendly, Tony still felt his arms prickle at how they seemed to act as one. One of them could be responsible for the explosion, Tony couldn't help but think. One of those men who smiled at him now could have been the one responsible for people losing their homes.

"And the other times?" Peter asked.

Tony forced his eyes away from the engineers and ahead. "That's up to how much people are willing to cooperate," he replied. At Peter's questioning look, Tony lifted his hands. "Sometimes people don't know how to negotiate."

"Then what do you do?" Peter asked.

"I ignore them." Tony replied.

Peter let out a small laugh, and something inside Tony eased just the slightest. He tried for a smile at Peter, but as he turned his head towards the boy, he saw a group of other engineers looking over with less friendly looks than the group before. Tony's smile faded as one of the men broke away and walked towards Tony and Peter.

"Mr. Hammer," Tony said. "What a surprise." The words tasted sour in his mouth. Justin Hammer smiled back, though Tony felt it was more like a rat baring its teeth. Which Justin Hammer basically was—a rat who just wore glasses and a ridiculous blue suit.

"I thought it would only be polite of me to pay my respects to Stark Industries," Justin replied, baring his teeth again. "Especially after the news. And your comments—_such _brave words, coming from you, Tony." Justin patted Tony's shoulder, and Tony looked down at Justin's hand pointedly.

To his credit, Justin brushed his hand away. Clearing his throat, the man nodded at Peter. "And you've got a new employee, too. How…" His eyes flitted over Peter, and Tony wanted to tug Peter behind him, especially as the color in Peter's cheeks rose.

And Justin noticed.

"Interesting," he finished with a close-lipped smile. He tilted his head at Peter. "And where did you come from? How did you come in acquaintance with Mr. Stark?"

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Tony quickly said, "He's the son of a friend of mine. An old employee. Who passed, unfortunately."

"Really?" Justin's eyebrows crept to his forehead. "I didn't know him, did I?"

"No," Tony replied. "You didn't."

"Well," Justin said with a loud sigh, "I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Mr…Parker, wasn't it?"

Peter at least had the sense to nod.

"Well, Mr. Parker—for one to be so young and to suffer from such a great loss…I can't even imagine," Justin said, patting Peter's shoulder, and this time, Tony's hand actually rose up to tug Peter by the arm just an inch away from Justin's hand.

Justin, hand frozen in mid-pat, looked over at Tony. "I see," Justin said. "Wouldn't want to tamper with the young blood—is that what you're thinking, Tony?"

"I'm thinking you should get out of this building right now," Tony said, bracing on a smile. "Before you have to deal with another lawsuit. Because I've heard Hammer Industries have had their fair share of them lately."

At that, Justin's face closed. "Careful, Tony."

"I always am," Tony replied, smile frozen in place. "Now get out."

Justin huffed and, straightening his suit, he nodded once at Peter. "Enjoy this while it lasts, Mr. Parker," he said coolly, his eyes boring into Tony. "Not quite sure how long you'll be here at Stark Industries the way Tony Stark seems to handle…new situations." And with that, Justin walked away, head held high.

Tony snorted the moment Justin was turned around, not even caring if the man heard him or not. "He's an idiot," he said. "He's been after Stark Industries the minute we knocked out his business." He looked down at Peter, only to find that the boy's face had paled.

Something twisted in Tony's stomach, but he forced out a quick laugh. "Don't take anything Justin Hammer takes seriously, Peter," he said. "He's always been like that." He snorted again. "You should have heard what he one said to Pepper after she was hired. He still has the bruise. From her, mind you, not me." He watched Peter's reaction carefully, but the boy's smile was weak—just an echo of his usual brightness.

"That sounds interesting," Peter only said. "I can't imagine Ms. Potts hitting anyone."

"That woman can surprise you," Tony replied, relieved that Peter had at least responded. "In both the best and worst ways." He let go of Peter's arm, and Peter looked down, as though surprised that Tony had still been holding onto him. As though Peter hadn't even been aware until now.

When Peter lifted his head back up at Tony, he was already turning back around.

"Now," Tony said. "We'll have to get to that investigation business."

* * *

No one had apparently seen anything throughout the entirety of the last few nights. No unfamiliar faces, no one lurking by the weapons area late at night, no one but no one but no one.

Tony's head hurt, too. Really, his head been hurting since this morning, when Steve and Natasha showed up at his doorstep in the ungodly hours of the morning. It was Natasha who had offered the prospect of moles or rats within Stark Industries, and then it was Steve who had said the majority of the people Tony had let go of had either been out of the city or had an alibi when the explosions hit.

"I'm sorry, Tony," Steve had said, and it killed Tony how sorry Steve actually looked. A sorry Steve was the worst kind of Steve—Steve, who had eyes that went as wide and as round as clear as some child's whenever delivering bad news. Steve, whose voice went all soft when people needed the whole world to quiet down. And Tony didn't want to admit it, but he needed the world to quiet down.

"Apologies aren't going to fix this," was all Tony had said, but he hadn't said it to sound rude. He had only been tired. More tired than before, and he had even (per Pepper's request) slept in an actual bed last night.

"So this is kind of good, right?" Peter said, snapping Tony out of his reverie.

Peter was leaning against the wall, waiting for the elevator. They both were. Tony had even let Peter press the button, and Peter's eyes had lit up along with the elevator button's, which would have been funny under other circumstances.

"I mean," Peter amended now, "maybe those weapons didn't even belong to Stark Industries. Maybe someone mimicked Stark Industries." He straightened up as the elevator doors dinged. "Maybe someone just copied the Stark Industries weapons well enough to make them pass off as something belonging to SI. And maybe the person responsible doesn't even belong here."

Tony stared. "You really think so?" he asked, and he felt the first twinge of hope since that morning.

"I don't know how else to explain whatever the others told us," Peter said slowly. "If no one here saw anything, then it could be a possibility, right?"

"Maybe. Still wouldn't explain who's behind this, though," Tony said, turning to the elevator doors. They still hadn't opened yet.

"What about that…" Peter's voice lowered. "Mr. Hammer?"

Tony snorted. "I wish," he said, and at Peter's stricken expression, Tony added hastily, "I'm just joking." He sighed, rolling his shoulders back. "Justin Hammer, for all it's worth, can't produce a rocket that can explode a pincushion, let alone a whole building. And I know that for a fact."

Peter paused. "Hammer Industries…" he mused, and then a small smile crept up to his face. "Was that—"

"The one responsible for accidentally causing a power outage in its own building? Yes, it was," Tony replied, enjoying the way Peter's smile grew wider. "And it wasn't because they were busy working, either."

Peter was still smiling. "I remember that story," he said. "Ned and I thought it was pretty funny." Then, his shoulders rounded over, and his smile faded as fast as it had come. "I wish we had a better idea of who it could have been, though."

And with that, Tony felt his own hope slowly fade. "I do, too," he said, turning back to the elevator doors just as they slid open.

Which was when Tony felt his blood freeze over.

Because a certain fired somebody was standing in the elevator.

"Mr. Beck," Tony said, lifting his eyebrows. "I thought you were officially out of Stark Industries."

Quentin Beck was the kind of person who Tony never trusted, even when he was first added as a member of the engineering team. He hadn't remembered who had given Beck the update in joining Stark Industries, but all Tony knew was that one day, Quentin Beck showed up in the building with his oddly too-wide grin and his too-big eyes that seemed to follow everywhere Tony went.

The man was unsettling.

And he had been even more unsettling when Tony had let him go.

He had just smiled.

And Quentin was smiling now, that same smile he had given Tony before walking out of the office. Lips pulled back, teeth showing—glinting—in a way that reminded Tony of the way a cat bared its teeth before catching hold of a mouse. Natasha had that same smile sometimes, too, but when Natasha smiled, she smiled like she was going to win. When Quentin smiled, he smiled like he was waiting for the other person to fall into a death trap.

"Don't worry, Mr. Stark," Quentin said through his smile. "I'm just here to pick up some of my belongings that I left behind." His eyes flicked down at Peter. "And who's this young man?"

"Peter Parker," Peter said before Tony could say anything. "I'm…new."

"New? Already replacing me, Mr. Stark?" Quentin asked, and for a second, Peter looked embarrassed, but then Quentin started laughing. "I'm only teasing, Mr. Parker. Welcome to Stark Industries."

Peter smiled, and Tony wanted to shove Quentin out of the elevator.

"And how are you doing, Mr. Stark?" Quentin asked, turning his eyes back on Tony. "I've heard the news. Sounds terrible, really." He shook his head. "But I saw what you said in the papers. Thought to myself, 'that's Mr. Stark'." Quentin bared his teeth again. "Figured you would give a press a run for their money."

"How are you, Quentin?" Tony only asked.

"Fine—I've been more than fine," Quentin replied. "I've already started considering some job offers somewhere else in the city, although I hope you don't get too jealous." When Tony didn't smile, Quentin laughed again. "Of course, just another tease. I think I'm allowed to tease, now that I'm not a part of Stark Industries anymore." He winked at Peter. "Mr. Stark looks so serious half the time, but he likes a good joke like any other human being. So don't hold back."

Something in Tony tightened at the way Peter laughed, but Tony forced out a short, clipped semblance of laughter himself. Just to keep the conversation light. Quentin Beck was going to leave. That was all. Just another awkward encounter with a former employee.

"And—ah, I nearly forgot!" Quentin clapped his hands together. "That charity gala—held by the Coulsons, I heard? I'm planning to go there tomorrow. Supposed to be a real ball, even if it's for charity." Quentin looked down at Peter, as though sharing some inside joke. "The Coulsons are just amazing people. They've got a wonderful daughter of their own, too, you know—maybe a little older than you, but she's something else. Got a lady, Mr. Parker?"

Peter's cheeks turned scarlet. "I don't—" He looked down at his shoes. Scratched his neck. "Not…"

Quentin laughed. A big, loud laugh that shook Tony. "Don't worry, I was a young man once, too," he said. "I won't torment you any longer." In a staged whisper, he added, "You must really meet the Coulsons' daughter one day, though. I promise you'll like her."

Peter turned to Tony. "Is the Coulsons' charity gala the one we're going to, Mr. Stark?" he asked, and he sounded so hopeful, so innocent, that any menace Tony wanted to throw at Quentin temporarily evaporated.

"It is," Tony replied. "Phillip Coulson is a good friend of mine." He turned his eyes to Quentin. "I'm surprised you know the family."

"I've bumped into them over the years," Quentin replied, winking again. It took everything in Tony not to grimace.

"But I've got to leave now—get my things before someone decides to throw them out," Quentin said with an added chuckle. He stuck out a hand to Tony. "Have a nice day, though, Mr. Stark. Great seeing you again, truly."

Tony slowly took Quentin's hand. It was cold. "Have a nice day, Mr. Beck." He only shook it once before letting go, and then Quentin was shaking Peter's hand, too, pumping it up and down like a machine.

"And I'll see you at the Coulsons', Mr. Parker," Quentin said.

"Looking forward to it," Peter replied, and with a last smile, Quentin tipped his head to both Tony and Peter and left.

Finally.

* * *

"How long did Mr. Beck work for you?" Peter asked, practically bouncing along Tony's side. A part of Tony was glad that Peter's mood had lightened, but another, much louder part of Tony couldn't help but be angry that Peter was happy because of someone like Quentin Beck.

Quentin wasn't a good person, that much Tony knew. Quentin had the oddest obsession with weaponry, and not just because he was working for Stark Industries. Not to mention that the man seemed to stroll through Stark Industries like he was the smartest person in the room—which was wrong, because Tony was always the smartest person in the room.

And Quentin hadn't been happy with being fired. (Then again, neither had the others, but Quentin had smiled while telling Tony that they'd see each other in hell, which suggested a particular brand of unhappiness.)

"For just a year or so," Tony replied, waiting for Peter to get into the carriage.

"Only a year?" Peter's smile faltered.

"He seems friendly, but he's not the best worker," Tony replied, getting into the carriage after Peter. As the carriage lurched forward, Tony added, "He forgot who and what he was working for half the time."

Peter sank back into the seat. "Oh," he said, and Peter sounded so disappointed that Tony wondered if he shouldn't have said anything at all. "It just—I thought Mr. Beck liked you." Peter laughed, albeit a little nervously. "At least, he liked you a lot more than Mr. Hammer did."

"Well, Justin expresses his feelings in a much more different way than Quentin does," Tony replied. He hesitated, watching the enthusiasm slowly deflate out of Peter like one of those balloons that street-sellers always carried around.

"Trust me, Peter," Tony said, trying to keep his voice light, "You don't want Mr. Beck as your friend."

"I never said I wanted to be his friend," Peter mumbled. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he was staring out the window, his jaws locked. "He was just friendly. Friendlier than the others."

"Only friendly on the surface," Tony pointed out.

"Alright, Mr. Stark," Peter said, but his voice was pulled taut—so tight that Tony felt if he said anything else, something would snap right back at him.

So Tony looked out the window, too.

* * *

When Tony and Peter got back, Pepper was already waiting for them in the foyer.

"Good, you two are back," she said. "I was wondering if you might be late."

"No, we're back on time," Tony said, and at that, Peter whipped his head around at Tony.

"Back in time for what?" Peter asked.

"Preparation for the gala," Pepper replied before Tony could. "It _is _tomorrow." She tilted her head questioningly at Peter. "I believe I mentioned something about the preparations to you this morning."

Peter's cheeks pinked. "I remember now," he said, looking down at the floor. "I didn't expect that…" He cleared his throat and lifted his head, pushing a hand back against his chestnut-colored hair. HE dropped his hand to his side and asked, "So what do I have to do?"

"We'll get a suit fitted for you," Pepper said. "That's first." She cocked her head to the side, as though examining Peter under a glass. "Shoes, too. And of course, just a few quick dance lessons."

"Dancing?" Peter repeated. "I—"

"Just a formality," Tony said quickly. "We're not asking you to perform."

Peter closed his eyes briefly, and then Tony saw the way Peter's jaws tightened.

"Okay," Peter said. "Suit first."

"Come with us, then," Pepper said, turning around. And before Tony could say anything, Pepper added, "That means you too, Tony."

Tony suppressed a sigh and trailed after Pepper and Peter. "The tailoring won't be that bad," he told Peter. "It'll be quick. Simple."

"Simple," Peter repeated. "Right."

When they all came upstairs to where the tailor was waiting in one of the studies, there was already a mess of fabric swatches and pins and needles awaiting them.

"And here's Mr. Parker," Pepper said, nudging Peter forward. Tony winced at how Peter's foot caught temporarily on the carpet. But before the boy could fall, Peter straightened and, the back of his neck reddening, Peter gave a small nod to the tailor.

"Stand here, please," the tailor said, pointing to a stool.

Peter stepped up.

"Arms out," the tailor instructed, and Peter did so.

The rest of the hour was spent with the tailor alternating between different swatches of fabric and commenting on Peter's stance. "A little straighter for me, please," the tailor hummed. "No, don't slouch—now, a gentleman like you should know better, really."

Peter stiffened, but he stood straighter.

"I could hardly stand straight half the time," Tony commented. "My mother threatened to make me wear her shoes for a week if I didn't improve my posture." He paused. "And those shoes rather hurt."

That got at least a small smile out of Peter, but that wasn't enough when the tailor started sticking in the needles.

"Stop flinching away now," the tailor tsked. "Needles are nothing to be frightened of."

"They're pointy and digging into my skin," Peter muttered, but his comment got waved away.

* * *

"Now, _one_, two three—_one, _two three—no, _one_—"

Peter dropped Pepper's hands. "Can we take a break?" he asked. "And I keep stepping on your feet."

"You've almost got it," Pepper assured Peter. "Let's go again. _One_, two, three—"

Peter shook his head, stepping away from Pepper. "Sorry, Ms. Potts," he said quietly. "I just—I don't think I can do this right now."

"The gala's tomorrow," Tony called from the side of the room. HE had watched the whole spectacle in the last hour, wincing along with Pepper every time Peter stepped on the woman's foot. Pepper kept waving away the pain, but Tony saw the way she seemed to tighten up every time it happened. And Peter wasn't doing any better. He looked miserable, his movements uncharacteristically sluggish and slow. "We already said you don't have to be the best. Just enough to fit in."

"Enough to fit in," Peter said, blowing out a sigh. "Right." He stepped away from Pepper, adding, "And that's if I'll ever fit in." He laughed a little, and it was enough for Tony's heart to sink as Peter pushed his hands up to his forehead. For a minute, Peter didn't say anything. Pepper looked over at Tony, but he couldn't find the words.

"I need a minute," Peter said at last, walking past Pepper.

"For what?" Tony asked, his voice breaking the silence. He stepped in front of Peter as he neared the doorway. "Peter." He tried to meet Peter's eyes, but the boy was glaring down at the floor again. "Peter," Tony tried again. Pleaded again. "IS this about what happened back at SI? Or the tailor? Or—"

"I need to get some air," was all Peter said.

"Or you need to tell me what's wrong," Tony replied. He gestured towards Pepper. "Why the walking away now?"

"I'm not walking away," Peter said, lifting his head, and Tony stopped short. Peter's eyes were wide and dark and red-rimmed with something that wasn't just weariness. "I just need to…" He carded his fingers through his hair again, leaving parts of it sticking up. "I just…"

"Just?" Tony asked, lifting his eyebrows. "Just _what_, Peter?" He raised his hands. "Because right now, I don't know what you're trying to say."

"You wouldn't." The words came out of Peter fast, sharp. Tony heard Pepper inhale a sharp breath.

Tony felt his hands hit his sides. "What do you mean?" he asked, trying to catch Peter's eyes again, but Peter was already looking away. Already drawing inwards.

"I'm pretty sure you can figure out what I mean," Peter mumbled, pushing past Tony.

Tony let his shoulder jerk backwards at the touch. He turned towards Peter's retreating back. "Peter—"

But Tony couldn't even figure out what he was supposed to say next, and he let Peter walk away.

* * *

**A/N: **_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! Midterm season is slowly approaching here at college, so any feedback would be really encouraging in this college gal's hectic month, haha._


	10. TEN

**TEN. **

Peter didn't know where he was going at first. So much so that he wasn't even aware that he was actually walking on the streets until he bumped into someone standing outside the Stark residence.

"Sorry," Peter mumbled, blinking up at who he had bumped into. It's a man, wearing a coat and carrying a newspaper. The man only grunted something that vaguely sounded like "distracted youth" before Peter continued down the street. Hands shoved into his pockets, Peter kept walking on, relishing in the way the air bit at the tips of his ears. He lifted his head up at the greying autumn sky. There were still clouds above, and Peter wondered when it was he had last seen anything but.

Peter's eyes made their way over to the buildings. To the rooftops, puffing out little breaths of smoke to join the sky.

HE let out his own sigh, imagined it solidify into smoke and camouflage into the clouds above. His breath would probably do a better job at camouflage than he could in a gala. Or Stark Industries. Whichever.

There were other things he was better at, anyways.

Peter cast a look over his shoulder. Besides for a few wandering pigeons, there was almost no one left on the streets at this hour. Still, Peter ducked into an alley. He examined the brick in front of him. One thing he had realized over the years of climbing up buildings: the brick in the wealthier districts were always ironically easier to climb up. The material was well-kept, with ridges and nooks and crannies much more prominent, whereas the brick in the poorer districts were worn and difficult to keep a good grip on.

Peter leapt up the brick now, his hands easily finding purchase amongst the mass of red and white. He pushed past window ledges and sills until he was standing on top of a roof. A breeze that smelled like firewood swept up to meet Peter, and he let the air settle over his face and sink into his bones.

But even that brief breeze wasn't enough—not enough to get out that suffocating feeling in Peter's chest. Not enough to make Peter get rid of the feeling that he was standing in some unknown land, standing in unmarked territory.

Enough was enough.

Peter took a running start and dove down at the next rooftop.

* * *

Peter found Ned sitting in the middle of the Chinese restaurant on the lower level of his apartment. He was wiping down a table with a washcloth, and Peter saw one of the owners of the restaurant pop his head from the kitchen and shout something Peter couldn't hear through the glass. Ned, in response, only halfheartedly waved the washcloth before the owner returned into the kitchen.

Peter smiled at himself as Ned rolled his eyes the minute the owner was gone. When they were working in the factory together, Ned would mimic the work master by imitating his loud, booming voice.

Something panged in Peter's chest at the memory. For a moment, he wished for that simpler time. Or just simpler people and places, when everything seemed to fit.

Peter puffed out a breath, letting it fog up the glass in front of him. He hadn't imagined that there would ever be a time when he would actually miss those days when the world had just been May and Ned and him, when the world was familiar and dirty, fine, but still _familiar_ like a pair of worn boots.

So Peter pushed open the door, and he felt a smile stretch over his lips as Ned lifted his head.

"Peter!" Ned exclaimed, dropping the washcloth. He hurried over, arms already outspread, and Peter let himself fall into them, his forehead resting against Ned's shoulder. "Is everything okay? Where have you been? How's May?"

Peter felt a quick stab of guilt at the thought of May. He remembered how hopeful May's face had been before they parted ways—May, for work, while Peter for Stark Industries. He hoped that Tony would explain something to May. Peter lifted his head from Ned's shoulder and, stepping back with a forced smile, said, "There's been a lot of stuff."

"I'll say," Ned said, leaning back against a table. His eyes flitted over Peter's face, his eyebrows furrowing together. "Is everything okay?" he repeated. "My mom felt terrible about not being able to help, and—"

"No," Peter said quickly. "It's not—your mom was busy helping others. And May got some help from other people, anyways." At Ned's raised eyebrows, Peter continued, quieter now, "Which is what I kind of wanted to talk about. Not directly. But a part of it." He nodded at the table. "Is now a bad time, or—"

"Nah," Ned said, sitting down on the table. He gestured at the seat across him. "I'm just cleaning tables as a bit of extra help to Mr. Chen. And he doesn't care."

"If you say so," Peter said, shooting a nervous glance at the kitchen, but no one came out.

"Come on." Ned folded his arms in front of himself. "What's been going on? Last time I saw you, you were saying you had some other idea to get help."

"I did," Peter replied. He swallowed. "Remember that…pocket watch I stole?"

"From Mr. Stark?" Ned snorted. "Of course. How could I forget?"

"Well…" Peter rested his hands on the table. Stared down at his fingernails. "May found out about it. And she made me return it to him." Peter scratched at a fingernail. "But when I was returning the pocket watch, I got caught. By Mr. Stark."

Ned's lips parted. His face paled. "How…?" He stared at Peter, wide-eyed. "But he didn't…" He blinked. "He didn't have you arrested?"

"No," Peter replied, feeling just the slightest weight lift off his chest. "He offered me a position at Stark Industries instead. When he found out I was…fast and stuff." He pressed his lips into a sad smile. "And I was pretty excited."

"What's he like in person?" Ned asked, his voice hushed.

Peter's eyes bore down at his nails. "He's…" His voice drifted. He remembered how he had shown up at Tony's doorstep after the explosion, how he had fallen right into Tony, how Tony had bandaged him up without another word. How May was instantly taken care of. "He's nice."

"Nice." Ned deadpanned. "You meet one of the biggest technology captains out there, and you only say that he's _nice_?"

Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek. "That," he mumbled, "and hard to keep up with."

"Well, of course," Ned said with a short laugh. "Tech genius, remember?"

"It's not that part," Peter said. He dug his fingernail into the table. "He's from a whole other world." His cheeks flushed at the memory of how the engineers had frozen at the sight of Peter, how Peter had felt like he was something found at the bottom of a shoe. How Mr. Hammer had looked at Peter with a strange, cruel smile curling on his lips. How Tony had talked about Mr. Beck as though Peter couldn't possibly understand some things—and _fine_, Peter may not know all about these kinds of things, but he had wanted to be sure of _something_, even if that meant being sure about a stranger. And then there had been the tailor, and then there had been the stupid dance lessons…

"I just don't belong there, Ned," Peter said, looking up at his friend. "I couldn't even complete two sentences in front of the types of people around Mr. Stark. How am I supposed to _work_ there?" He flung his hands up in the air. "I don't even know why Mr. Stark hired me to begin with," he continued miserably. "I stole his pocket watch. It's crazy to hire someone who stole a pocket watch." He brought his head down to the table, ignoring the strange smell of chicken and soap coming off the wood. "I told him I was good with machines," he mumbled against the wood. "But literally everyone at Stark Industries is good—no, _genius _with machines. And rockets. And everything else." His shoulders slumped forward, and Peter's nose dug into the table. The position was uncomfortable, but Peter didn't care. "This was just a stupid mistake," he mumbled. "I don't know who I was kidding."

Peter waited for the reassuring pat of Ned's hand against his back. Or some loud, sympathetic sigh.

Instead, Ned asked, "So you're giving up?"

Peter shrugged against the table. "I stormed out on Mr. Stark," he said, heat prickling at his cheeks just at the memory. He winced. He had _shoved _himself past Tony. "It was bad," Peter added in a small voice. "He probably hates me now."

"No one can hate you, Peter," Ned said automatically.

Peter managed a weak smile against the table. "Thanks," he said.

"That being said," Ned sighed, "come on, Peter."

"Come on _what_?" Peter mumbled.

"Look up, man."

Peter reluctantly lifted up his head. A moment later, he wrinkled his nose and said, "The table smells funny."

"Of course it does—I haven't cleaned it properly yet," Ned replied. Folding his arms over his chest, he continued, "And, on another obvious note, you'd be crazy to give up working for Mr. Stark."

Peter rested the side of his face against a hand. "Didn't you just hear what I said?" he asked, his chin bobbing against his hand as he spoke. His chin hurt at the movement, and Peter dropped his hand back down on the table. "Ned, there's no way I can _ever _get into Mr. Stark's…world." He shook his head. "It's just…too much. At once."

"Of course it's going to be too much at once," Ned replied, exasperated. Which made Peter pause, because the only other time he had ever seen Ned exasperated was when the work master had kept Ned longer than he needed to. Only Ned hadn't said anything at the time—it was only later, when Peter waited for Ned to come out of the factory, did Ned kick the side of the building and talk about how nothing was ever fair with the work master.

"Look, Peter," Ned said, splaying his hands across the table, "you've been given this chance, right? A big chance to do something…" Ned gestured at Peter. "Better."

"I can't do anything, though," Peter argued. "The others at Stark Industries didn't want to give me the time of the day."

"So?" Ned asked, the word harsh to Peter's ears. "Since when did _anyone _ever give us the time of day?"

Peter stared at Ned's hands. "That's different," he murmured.

"How?" Ned asked. "Stark Industries or the factories, doesn't matter—people are always going to treat you the same way until you do something about yourself." He slapped his hands against the table. Peter jumped, and Ned grimaced, rubbing at his hands. "Shouldn't have done that," Ned amended, and at Peter's halfhearted nod in agreement, Ned added, "But my point still stands. It's either Stark Industries or working at a factory for the rest of your life."

Ned leaned towards Peter, his eyes wider than he had ever seen them. "Peter." Ned said, shaking his head. "So you got a little down from the others around Stark Industries. But who cares? Because Mr. Stark handpicked _you_ for some reason." Ned sat back. "So he must have thought you were worth hiring—he must have thought _you _were worth _something_." He tilted his head at Peter, a sad smile crossing his face. "So you're not going to fit in right away," Ned said quietly. "So just do better. Get to the top. Prove everyone wrong."

"I don't know if I can," Peter said quietly, looking up at Ned. Pleading. "That's the thing—I don't know if I can even last two weeks in there without someone figuring out that I'm not…"

"Not what?" Ned asked. "Rich? Groomed since a baby?" He shook his head again. "So then they don't know what it really is to work to the top, then. They've had things handed to them on a silver platter, Peter." Ned jabbed a finger at Peter. "But you haven't."

Peter looked down at his lap. At his hands, forever calloused from time at the factories and time scrambling up buildings. He swallowed, his hands blurring before him. "I don't know if I'm right for Stark Industries, Ned," he whispered. "This was just…I feel like I might just be a stroke of dumb luck." _And I don't want it to be,_ he wanted to add.

"So if it was a stroke of dumb luck, then take it," Ned said, picking up the washcloth. Peter heard it slide against the table, and when he lifted his head, Ned was staring down at the cloth in his hands. "Because Peter," Ned said, lifting his eyes, "some of us would take that luck gladly."

Heat crept up Peter's cheeks. "Sorry," he said quietly. "This probably sounds stupid to you."

"A little bit," Ned replied, though there wasn't any malice or bitterness in his voice. "But you're usually not stupid." He met Peter's eyes. "Come on," Ned said quietly. "You've got this great opportunity. You'd be crazy not to take it. So take it." Ned scraped his chair back as he stood up. Wiping down a length of the table, Ned added, "Take the chance so you can get out of this dump." He looked at Peter. "And when you go into Stark Industries again," Ned said, "show everyone that you're not gonna give up anytime soon."

* * *

Peter wound up staying with Ned for the rest of the night. And when he woke up the next morning, Ned was sitting across from him and waiting patiently.

"So?" Ned asked, crossing his arms.

Peter sighed. "Yeah, I'll go," he said, and Ned smiled the biggest smile Peter had ever seen from him.

"My best friend's working at Stark Industries," Ned said, helping Peter up from the floor. "And Stark Industries has no idea what's coming for them."

* * *

Tony was already in the study when Peter walked in.

"Mr. Stark," Peter nodded, walking over to a desk opposite Tony's.

"Peter," Tony replied. Peter felt Tony's eyes trained on him as he picked up a blueprint. Peter's eyes glazed over the diagram, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Then, in a quiet voice, Tony asked, "Where were you last night?"

"At a friend's," Peter replied, and he hated how stiff his voice sounded, but when he dropped the blueprint, all he could see was Tony's expression as Peter had stormed out of the room. Peter looked back down at the table.

"I see." Tony's voice was stiff, too, and when Peter looked up, Tony was already looking back down at his own table.

The silence filled the space between them, and Peter alternated between fiddling with the corner of a blueprint and picking up scraps of machine. He turned over the scrap in his hands, and, looking down at the blueprint, started assembling.

He couldn't tell exactly what it was Tony meant to build, but this certainly wasn't a rocket or any of the other weapons that Stark Industries produced. Peter tilted his head back down at the blueprint. He could tell this was mostly just a lever system at work, but Peter couldn't reason why Tony would need some lever to begin with.

But Peter couldn't bring himself to ask any questions—not now, not with the silence that seemed to choke the air between Tony and him.

* * *

"Look at you."

Peter lifted his head from the mirror and turned around to find May standing in the doorway.

"May," he said, whirling around. "You're back already?"

"Mr. Stark sent someone over to fetch me from work," May replied, walking towards Peter. She nodded at Peter's fumbling fingers around his neck. "Do you need help with the tie?"

"Yes, please," Peter said, breathing out a sigh of relief.

With a small laugh, May tugged at the tie with her hand. "Now, I'm going to need you to do some of the heavy lifting," May said, re-adjusting the tie around Peter's neck. She lifted her arm that was still wrapped up. "This old thing isn't cooperating with me, as you know."

"How are you feeling?" Peter asked, biting down on his lip as he looked down at the injured arm. "How are you able to work?"

"Mr. Stark sent over some news to my employer," May replied lightly. "So for now, I'm just helping the other seamstresses with smaller tasks that don't require both my arms." She lifted her eyes up at Peter and, at what he knew must have been his worried look, shook her head. "I'm _fine_, Peter," May said, squeezing Peter's arm. "_Things_ have been fine. Now take this end of the tie for me and put it over your shoulder."

As Peter followed the instruction, May asked, "And how are things for you? Pull the tie just a little."

Peter tugged the tie faster than he intended. "Fine," he said.

"Hold onto this part," May said as she picked up the shorter end of the tie. She pressed it towards Peter's neck and, looking up at him, asked, "How'd your day with Mr. Stark go yesterday? Long end, now."

Peter brought the longer tip of the tie towards May, and she pressed it down against the short end. "It was fine," Peter repeated.

May tugged at the two ends of the tie and nodded for Peter to loop in the longer part. "I was wondering where you were last night, too," May said, and though her tone was still light, Peter couldn't help but notice that her grip had tightened just the slightest on the bowtie.

"I saw Ned," Peter replied, looping in the tie. He looked down at May and felt, not for the first time, a flicker of guilt. "Sorry I didn't tell you before."

"Well, at least it was just Ned," May said. She paused. "You haven't been…taking part of any of your old hobbies, have you?"

"Are you talking about pickpocketing?" Peter asked, adjusting the tie. When May only gave Peter a sad half-smile, Peter quickly shook his head. "I—no, May. Nothing like that. Just talking with Ned."

"That's good, then," May said, stepping back from Peter. "How's Ned?"

"He's fine," Peter responded. "I think he was more excited about me working with Mr. Stark than I am, honestly."

May frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, watching Peter's face carefully. "Did something happen?"

Peter wished he could take those words back at the sudden heat in May's voice. He remembered the first time Peter had ever gotten into a fight with someone from the factory—it had been a stupid thing, just one boy getting into a brawl with another, but May had stormed out of the apartment building, and the next day, the boy had mumbled an apology.

"No," Peter said now, shaking his head frantically. "Nothing happened."

May narrowed her eyes. "Peter—"

Before May could say anything else, someone cleared a throat from the doorway.

Peter, relieved, lifted his eyes to find Pepper waiting at the door, her hands clasped delicately in front of herself. "I'm sorry to interrupt," Pepper said when May turned around, too. "But the carriages are ready."

"Thank you, Ms. Potts," Peter said. He looked down at May, who only shot Peter a look that told him that the conversation wasn't over, much to his own exasperation.

"Shall we?" Peter said instead, offering an arm.

Looping her arm through Peter's elbow, May only said, "We'll resume this conversation."

"I thought so," Peter murmured as they walked out of the room.

May smiled sweetly up at Peter. "You can't hide anything from me," she said, bumping him. "I figured you'd know that by now."

Peter managed a smile. That much was true—a little too true for comfort.

"You two look lovely," Pepper commented when Peter and May reached the foyer. Pepper herself was wearing a dark blue dress that seemed to shine under the chandelier light, which Peter figured was probably the point. Tony, on the other hand, was wearing a suit similar to Peter's, only there was the occasional scarlet accenting the attire—scarlet bowtie, scarlet lapels.

"Thank you," Peter heard May say. "And thank you so much for inviting us."

"You two are guests—it was the least we could do," Pepper said warmly. She looked to the door. "Shall we?"

Peter shuffled forward with May, and then they were all in the carriage—Pepper and Tony sitting on one side, Peter and May on the other. Peter's knees knocked once into Tony's, and feeling his chest tighten, he quickly withdrew before they could knock again.

May and Pepper, meanwhile, were engaged in a hearty discussion about the business of dresses and rockets. "Much of a frenzy," Pepper was saying. "But I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

"Not with weapons, maybe," May laughed, "but with angry customers flooding through the doors every other minute? Absolutely." The two women lapsed back into laughter before Peter turned to the window. As the carriage started, he focused on the passing streets and houses. There were fewer people on the streets tonight.

"They're all heading to the Coulsons' too, I suspect," Tony said.

Peter turned away from the window. Tony had been watching, too. "The Coulsons are rather well-known in these parts," Tony explained. "Old family."

"Oh." Peter tried to force his voice to be lighter. He glanced over at May, whose face had softened considerably since getting in the carriage. He swallowed back a sigh. He needed to focus. Try, at least, for his aunt. "How long have you known them?"

"I only know the current head of the house," Tony replied. "My father knew the predecessors of the household, but I never bothered. Didn't want to get tangled with family politics." He met Peter's eyes, and Peter looked away quickly.

"Family politics?" he only asked.

"Some scandal," Tony replied. "Especially after the only son—the current Coulson now—married who the others thought was the wrong woman." Tony huffed out a dubious little laugh. "They were going to kick him out of the family, but then the father died, and Philip Coulson ended up being the only acceptable heir. And ah, here we are."

The carriage rolled to a stop, and everyone got out in front of a large house with large windows and grand, towering peaks that reminded Peter of one of the castles in picture books, and light and music floating from what felt like every last nook and cranny of the edifice.

Peter didn't know whether he wanted to keep standing out here or run.

"Well, then," Tony said. He turned to Peter. "You should…" His voice drifted. Peter waited for the inevitable end of that sentence: _you should stay quiet. You shouldn't talk to people. _

But then Tony smiled. "You should enjoy yourself." He nodded at Peter. "May, you heard that, too?"

"Understood completely," May said cheerfully from Peter's side. She squeezed Peter's arm, and Peter looked down at his aunt again. Under the glow of the lights from the house, May looked brighter. Healthier.

Peter braced on a smile. "Right. Completely understood."

* * *

Peter stayed to the side. He watched as people danced, mostly. There had been a few speeches beforehand by the man who Peter later realized was Philip Coulson. He could have been around Tony's age, though Peter couldn't be too sure. Philip had a kind face, and he seemed to smile even when he wasn't talking to someone. His hair was cut short and neat, and every once in a while, he would squeeze his wife's hand.

"This is Peter Parker, one of my employees," Tony had introduced Peter to the Coulsons. Peter had shaken Philip's hand, and then Philip had smiled (naturally) and commented on how young Peter was—but not in a way that, oddly, didn't make Peter feel embarrassed.

"So much talent for one so young, if you're working for Mr. Stark," Philip had said, and he said the words with so much pride, as though Peter was his own son, that Peter couldn't help but smile back.

"And this is my wife and my daughter," Philip had later introduced to Peter, and Peter had come face-to-face with a Chinese woman dressed in a silver gown. Peter had been surprised at first, and then he remembered what Tony had said about the scandal. He hadn't ever seen a Chinese woman married to a white man, and he wasn't even sure if it was allowed, but he saw the way Philip smiled at her—and a different kind of a smile than the ones he gave others, too—and he saw the way her eyes lightened at him, so Peter decided that allowed or not, they would stay together, anyways.

"Melinda and Daisy," Philip said, and Peter smiled at both of them. Daisy was a bit older than Peter, but she gave Peter a grin that told him that she didn't care too much for the formalities, either.

But that had been what felt like hours ago, and despite Daisy's kind offer, Peter hadn't wanted to dance right away. So Peter stayed to the side.

It was getting hot in the room, too—with so many people alternating between dancing and drinking, the temperature seemed to rise and rise and rise. Peter tugged at his bowtie, wiped at the sweat beading at his brow.

"'scuse me," he whispered to one of the servers passing by, but the server either because he didn't hear or didn't want to hear kept walking. Peter tried again as another server walked by. "Excuse—" But that server walked away, too, and Peter sat back in his seat, face warmer than ever.

"What do you want?"

Peter whirled around. There was another server standing right behind him, only unlike the others, who beamed at everyone, she didn't even smile. A strand of curly hair dangled over her eyes, and she blew it out of the way with a halfhearted puff.

"Well?" the server asked again, her dark eyes boring into Peter. "What do you want?"

"Just some water please," Peter squeaked. He swallowed. "Um, thank you," he added, relieved to find that his voice had at least lowered to its usual tone.

"Back in a second," the server said, and sure enough, she returned moments later, a glass of water in a glass that Peter was sure was meant for holding champagne, judging by the glasses the others were holding. Still, Peter took the water gratefully.

"Next time you want one of our attention, you have to stand up and be more obnoxious," the server said dryly as Peter gulped down the water. "Or you could snap your fingers in our faces. That usually gets our attention real fast. Or, if you're feeling particularly energetic, you could try grabbing us by the cuffs of our necks."

Peter looked up from his water, stricken. "Did someone ever actually do that?"

"Once," the server said matter-of-factly. "Not to me, of course, but it happened to someone before."

Peter gawked at the server. "That sounds horrible," he said.

"It is," the server agreed. She nodded at Peter. "Do you want me to bring you more water?"

Peter looked down at his glass. It was already nearly empty, but after hearing the server's small horror story, he shook his head. He drank the rest of the water.

"I'm getting you more," the server decided when Peter finished.

"You don't have to—"

"Can't help it," the server said, taking Peter's glass. She snorted. "You look too pathetic just sitting there. You have to pretend that you're doing _some_thing."

Peter smiled weakly, not sure whether the server was being kind or rude, but the server only rolled her eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. She came back a few moments later, as she did before, and handing the glass over to Peter, she asked, "So is this your first time?"

"First time with what?" Peter asked, though the way his heart sank told him that he already knew what the server was thinking.

"First time at _this_," the server said, jerking her chin in the direction of the dancers. And the drinkers. And everyone in between. "Because you don't exactly look like the type of person who enjoys these things."

Peter couldn't help but shrink. "I don't?" he asked.

"It's not a bad thing," the server said, crossing her arms. "I don't enjoy them."

"Well, of course you don't," Peter replied. "You just give obnoxious people drinks all day."

"I usually pretend I don't see the obnoxious ones," the server only said. She flicked her eyes at Peter. "But you looked too sorry to ignore."

"Thanks," Peter mumbled into his glass.

There was a small silence between them, and then the server asked, quieter, "So why're you here? You look too young to be a millionaire. Or billionaire. Whichever comes first."

"Oh…" Peter craned his neck over the dancers. He found Tony standing at the side of the room, too, but unlike Peter, Tony was surrounded by a group of people. He was laughing about something, and Pepper was smiling at the small crowd, though her lips were pressed a little too tightly for the smile to be genuine. "I'm with Mr. Stark," Peter said, turning back around to the server. When the server lifted an eyebrow, Peter added, "I'm a new employee."

"Huh." The server cocked her head at Peter. "Didn't know Stark brought his employees to galas."

"It's a…" Peter thought about the fact that both May and he were technically living with Tony. Well, not even technically—Peter had woken in a bedroom in Tony's house. "Complicated situation," Peter chose to say.

"Huh," the server repeated. She brushed the strand of hair out of her eyes and added, "Well, Mr. Complicated Situation, sitting around all night isn't exactly going to make your situation any less complicated, especially if you're one of Stark's employees."

Peter looked out at the dancing crowd. And then he looked back at the server. He imagined himself asking the server to dance for a minute, because in spite of everything, she was probably the first person who came up to speak to him. Somewhat willingly, too—the somewhat part crediting itself to the fact that apparently, Peter looked like a sorry child who got left out of a ball game.

"What's your name?" Peter asked instead.

"Why do you want to know?" the server asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Because we were talking?" Peter replied, and he hadn't meant to say the words like a question, but he couldn't help himself.

"What's _your _name?" the server asked instead.

"Peter," Peter replied, and he stuck out his hand, hoping it wasn't wet and clammy after holding a glass for so long.

The server, to his surprise, took his hand and shook it once. Her hand was much warmer than Peter's, and her fingers were long—long enough to brush against the skin where his forearm met his wrist. Or maybe that was just her grip. "Michelle," the server replied.

Peter smiled.

Michelle smiled back.

Maybe he should ask her to dance.

"Michelle!" someone bellowed from the kitchens, and then Michelle's face darkened back to its usual expression.

"Good luck with the crowd, Peter," Michelle said, and with a small salute that made Peter want to laugh, she walked back towards the kitchen.

And almost as soon as Michelle left, Peter heard a familiar voice ask, "And what's a handsome fellow such as yourself doing here without a dancing partner?"

Peter whirled around. "Mr. Beck," he said, surprised at the amount of relief in his own voice. "You're here."

"As I promised I would be," Quentin replied with a smile. He patted Peter on the back. "May I?" he asked, looking down at the seat beside Peter. When Peter nodded, Quentin sat down and asked, "But for real now—what are you doing here, sitting all by your lonesome?"

"I was talking to someone before," Peter said defensively.

"Yes, to a server—very sweet," Quentin said with a nod of approval. "But come now—the server couldn't be the only person you've talked to this whole night?"

And maybe it was that Quentin was the only other person who spoke to Peter that night, or maybe it was that Quentin was looking at Peter with so much warmth, but Peter heard himself admit, "It's just…everything's really overwhelming." He gestured towards the crowds and let out a small, shaky laugh that rattled out of his chest. "I don't know how long it's going to take for me to adjust."

"Ah," Quentin said, and he nodded. "I remember that, too."

"Remember?" Peter asked, turning quickly towards Quentin.

"If you could believe it, I was once in your shoes," Quentin replied, giving Peter a small smile. "Only I was worse, because I actually left parties early. At least you're still here." And Peter _did _feel a little better about that last detail, but he still couldn't get past the fact that Quentin had ever been as Peter was now, tired and alone.

"It'll get better," Quentin said softly. "Trust me. A bright kid like yourself—you'll get the hang of the ropes soon enough, and there won't be anything to be overwhelmed by." His expression saddened for a moment, and he added, "Nothing to run from."

Peter swallowed. "Is…that why you're not a part of Stark Industries anymore?" he asked, and he hated himself for asking the question as soon as it left his mouth, and Quentin's shoulders slumped forward.

"No," Quentin said. He lifted his head and looked straight ahead—and Peter didn't have to follow his gaze to know that he was looking at Tony. "Tony Stark likes…flashy objects. New toys." He glanced over at Peter, and Peter felt something cold settle into his stomach. He looked over at Tony again, who was still laughing with the others.

"I'm sure he doesn't think that way about you, though, Peter," Quentin said. "You're a special kid."

Peter forced a smile at Quentin. "Thanks," he managed to say, but he still felt cold.

"If you ever need me, Peter, you can always come and reach out—I've got some interviews with other companies, but I'll let you know where my next workplace is," Quentin said, clasping Peter's shoulder again.

"Thanks," Peter repeated, though he meant this one a little more.

"I have to get going now," Quentin said, standing up and straightening his suit. "But remember, Peter—anytime. Anywhere. Understand?"

Peter nodded mutely, and after Quentin left, he stared back at the crowd of the dancers but not really seeing them. He could only see a blur of colors and lights and bodies, the music seeming to twirl them around faster and faster around him. The room felt warm all over again, but Peter didn't have any water, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to try his luck with a server again.

Peter stood to his feet, his heart pulsing in his ears. He stumbled past people, mumbling apologies, and he was right at the door—_Tony Stark likes new toys_—when he felt someone grab his arm.

Peter whirled around, protest already halfway past his lips when he saw—

"Peter?" May asked, her eyebrow inching higher up her forehead. "What's going on?" She frowned at Pet Peter. "What's wrong?"

"I just…" Peter couldn't even hear himself speak above the music and the laughter. "I need some air."

"Okay." May said, readjusting her grip on Peter's arm. "Do you want to take a walk?"

A part of Peter wanted to tell May to go back to the rest of the gala, but then Peter nodded, and May nodded back with the set determination only May could ever have. "Come on," she said, tugging on Peter's arm. "Let's walk."

* * *

"I don't know if I belong in Stark Industries," Peter said as soon as they stepped outside. He couldn't help himself now—the air had become even colder now that it was nighttime, and it felt refreshing against Peter's face. The words blew out of his mouth faster than he could help them, and he let out a long, shaky breath afterwards, feeling as though they'd been heating inside of him for this whole time.

"Did Mr. Stark tell you that?" May asked.

"No," Peter replied. "But…" He gestured into the house. "Look at them, May. And look at _me_." He gestured at himself. "Can you honestly see me here? For the rest of my life?" He shook his head. "I couldn't even get through a dance lesson with Ms. Potts without walking out. I can't even talk to people here properly."

"That's because most of them are dull," May said, and when Peter stared at her, she shrugged. "I've tried, too, and their conversations are awful. They talk about things like taking a vacation to the countryside and whose son is marrying whose daughter. Thank goodness Pepper's here, otherwise I'd die of boredom." She squeezed Peter's arm. "You're not the problem, Peter, trust me."

"I feel like the problem," Peter mumbled. "And I'm pretty sure Mr. Stark will think I'm the problem, too." He groaned, pushing a hand up to his forehead. "I know this is supposed to be a better opportunity for me and everything—I _know_—but…" He looked down at May pleadingly. "I don't know if anyone will ever believe that, you know? That I should be here?"

May paused. And then, taking a deep breath, she said, "No one will ever believe that you should be anywhere like here, Peter." She looked at him in the eye. "They'll question if you deserve to be here. They'll complain about you. They'll criticize your every move."

"Which is why this is a mistake."

"No," May said pointedly. "All those reasons are why you're going to be fine here." At Peter's incredulous look, May said, "We Parkers are made of tough stuff." She snorted. "Anyone who lived where we lived is made of tough stuff. We don't back down easily." She reached up and ruffled a hand through Peter's hair. "You know," she said, "I didn't come from a very well-off family, either. We were in a much worse shape than Ben's, and everyone knew it." Peter didn't bother arguing, even though it pained him to see the sadness in May's eyes. He didn't know too much about May's family to begin with, but he remembered that there were nights when she would turn away from certain people on the streets who called out her name. "When I became a seamstress, the others tried to make a point of ignoring me. They gave me extra work—enough to make sure I wouldn't ever finish on time. They tried to fool around with the sewing machines."

Peter's eyes widened. He hadn't known all those details. "What did you do?" he asked.

"Do?" May smiled. "I just did better than them." She placed her hand on her hip. "And look at me now—still fixing up dresses for all these years, and no one can complain." She touched Peter's cheek, and Peter leaned into her palm, all the energy and tightness in his body seeping out.

"Peter," May whispered, her eyes shining, "you're right. This is a better opportunity—an opportunity where you can do something more than just picking pockets. But this is also a better opportunity to rise up, and I don't just mean work-wise." She smiled again. "I know you're going to do just fine."

"What if…" Peter started, but May only shook her head.

"What if this is all good?" May asked quietly. "What if you reach the top instead? What if you fly?"

* * *

Peter's head still felt light when May and he walked back inside, but not in a bad way. He squeezed May's hand as they took in the dangers and drinkers and in-betweeners. May squeezed back.

And then Peter saw Tony, still surrounded by people—but the different people than the last time. And this time, Peter saw that while Tony was still laughing, a certain weariness had reached his eyes, and Peter couldn't help but wonder if Tony ever felt tired of the noise, too.

And then Tony's eyes caught onto Peter's, and his smile faded for a moment. Peter's chest clenched, but then Tony was lifting his glass up to Peter, a different kind of smile on his face. The kind that made Peter feel as though there was a force that somehow made Tony hear and see Peter for the first time that night.

Peter smiled back.

* * *

**A/N: **_I didn't think I'd make this chapter this long, but I knew I wanted to untangle Peter out of some of his feelings, so here you go? _

_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! I'm gearing up for midterm season, so I'm trying to stay on top of writing. (I'm currently finishing writing chapter fourteen, so let's see if I can keep up with my schedule, haha.)_


	11. ELEVEN

**ELEVEN. **

The night was getting better, for the most part. Tony had met many donors for the charity gala, mostly just shaking hands and making small talk with them. But then at least one person in the group would start to say something along the lines of "oh, I've heard of the terrible news about Stark Industries…", and then Tony's jaws would stiffen, and then Pepper would try to veer the conversation away politely, but then Tony would force a laugh and say, "if you read the news, then you would already know what I had to say on the matter", and the conversation would cease into an awkward silence. And then Pepper would ask the donors what they thought of the gala so far, and then everyone would lapse into even more awkward laughter and sip a little longer from their champagne glasses.

Tony was half-considering just slipping out of the gala when he spotted Peter standing in front of the room with his aunt. For a moment, the light seemed to spill out from behind them. Peter stood with May at his side, his eyes surveying the room with a neutral expression on his face, and then Peter and Tony met eyes.

For a moment, Tony didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to do or say to Peter, _period_, especially after yesterday. As soon as Peter had stormed out of the room, Tony had looked at Pepper, and Pepper had looked at Tony and said, "This is too fast for him."

And Tony had known Pepper was right, but the words that came out of his mouth sounded more defensive than anything else. "We can't do anything about that," he said. "He's going to learn. He'll learn."

He had said that last bit more to himself than to Pepper, but that didn't matter in the end, because Pepper had argued, "He'll learn, but he'll only learn if he has someone who might actually take him through the steps first. You can't fling it all at him, Tony."

So Tony looked at Peter now, who was still looking around the room, and Tony wondered if Peter had been outside just a moment ago, too. Tony wondered if Peter had been about to leave, and he couldn't have blamed him for doing so.

But Peter was here.

Still here.

And Tony had raised his glass, feeling oddly, surprisingly, wonderfully grateful that Peter Parker, in spite of it all, had stayed.

Now, Peter and his aunt were dancing—_actually dancing_—or, at least, dancing the best a boy with little dancing experience and a woman with a broken arm could. But nobody seemed to mind, or at least, not mind as much as Tony would have expected. And May was smiling, and Peter was smiling, so that was all that really mattered to Tony.

Tony let out a breath, and it came out louder than he anticipated because Pepper asked, "Relieved it's almost over?"

"Relieved I don't have to talk to any more idiots," Tony replied, looking over at Pepper. Her eyes were tired, but she stood ramrod straight, as she always had.

Still, Pepper gave Tony a sidelong smile before saying, "Well, we're in the last stretch now." She nodded at Peter and May. "At least they're enjoying themselves."

"Yes…" Tony murmured. He watched Peter turn May carefully around. "I wonder if he's stepped on any of her toes yet."

"I'm sure he's improved."

"In the last twenty-four hours?" Tony snorted.

"You said that he's a quick learner. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Tony glanced over at Pepper. "And what about your toes?" he asked. "Has any feeling returned to them yet?"

"Surprisingly, yes." Pepper pointedly looked down at the hem of her dress, which was hiding her shoes. "Not a single bit of pain."

"Would that mean you'd be willing to dance as well?" Tony asked.

Pepper looked at Tony. She paused. And then, after a pause, she said, "For a moment, I thought you were asking me to dance."

"I was. Am," Tony amended. He cast Pepper a side glance. "I promise not to step on your toes."

Pepper gave Tony a long look. And then, looking up at the ceiling, she said, "One."

"Wonderful," Tony said, and he took Pepper's hand and led her to the thick of the dancefloor. Pepper's hand was warm and almost comfortable in Tony's, her fingers fitting almost perfectly around Tony's hand. "Look at that," Tony said when they turned to face each other. He held up their clasped hands. "Like a puzzle piece." A corner of his lips quirked into a smile as Pepper's eyes drifted down to their hands.

"Quite a puzzle piece," Pepper only commented before letting their hands drop into a proper dancing position. As the music started, Tony brought Pepper deeper into the dance floor, and he placed a hand on her waist. He half-expected to feel Pepper stiffen under his touch, but whether it was because there were too many layers of clothing or because Pepper simply didn't mind, that stiffening never came.

"Well, look at that," Tony said as they glided across the floor, "no toes stepped on yet."

"Very impressive, Mr. Stark," Pepper deadpanned. Her eyes skirted around the room and then, clearing her throat, she said, "I have to ask, though—the dancing."

"Yes?" Tony asked.

Pepper smiled a little forcefully at a pair of wandering eyes and, smile still in place, she asked, "Why dance with me now?"

"Why _not _dance with you now?" Tony asked as they circled around another pair. "Don't tell me you were planning on staying to the side all night, because I certainly wasn't."

Pepper's shoulders relaxed, and Tony hadn't even been aware that she had been holding them so tightly together until the shoulder sleeves of her dress slid down just the slightest bit. "So you only needed a dance partner," she said flatly. "You could have asked any of the other ladies."

"But I didn't want any of the other ladies," Tony pointed out. When Pepper looked down at him, Tony lifted his shoulders. "The other ladies step on my feet."

"Of course." This time, it was Pepper's lips that were starting to twitch upwards, and then, looking over Tony's shoulder, she added, "It seems that Peter's gotten the habit of not stepping on anyone else's feet, though."

Tony looked over his shoulder and, to both his surprise and amusement, found that Peter was dancing not with his aunt this time, but with a server in the corner. The server was rolling her eyes at something Peter had said, but she seemed to enjoy herself at least a little bit, even as Peter clumsily twirled her around.

"Something else," Tony murmured, smiling to himself. He turned back around to Pepper. "He picked up quickly."

"Yes, it seems he has," Pepper replied. "Among other things."

"Meaning?" Tony asked, raising his arm. Pepper circled around and came back to Tony, her hands just barely catching his.

"Mr. Parker is an unusual addition to Stark Industries," Pepper said. At Tony's expression, she added, "I've already made clear that I don't think he's a bad addition. But still…" Her gaze drifted over to Peter and the server. "I wonder what you see him doing for the rest of the years. He still needs much…adjusting to the new environment."

Tony followed Pepper's gaze to Peter. Peter was now leaning against the wall with the server, and this time, they were simply talking—or, Peter talking animatedly with his hands, while the server only watched on with a small smile. The color in Peter's cheeks were so bright, Tony could see the pink all the way from across the room, and yet, the laughter that sounded from him was genuine and bright—more genuine than any that Tony has let out for the whole night.

"He's different than the rest," Tony said at last, turning back to Pepper. He watched curls on Pepper's shoulders brush back and forth as they moved to the rhythm of the music. He lifted his eyes to meet Pepper's, who watched him carefully, like she always did. Like she always had.

"He's different," Tony repeated, and he forced his gaze away from Pepper and to Peter. The boy was laughing now at something the server had said, his curls shaking a little under the pressure of his giggling. Warmth flooded Tony's chest at the sight. He felt like he hadn't seen Peter actually smile in a long time.

He saw Peter standing in his office on that first night, his cheeks pale but eyes bright as he mentioned that Stark Industries could always start building something more. He saw Peter standing in the doorway with his aunt on his shoulders. He saw Peter working diligently by his side, working out the blueprints as though it was as simple as a primer. He saw Peter staring up at the chandeliers in the Stark Industries lobby as though they were stars. He saw Peter quietly coming into his office just this morning, picking up the work where they had left off without so much as a pause.

"He still has things to learn," Tony said at last. "But there's something in him." He turned to Pepper. "Something he said about Stark Industries was different."

"How so?"

Tony looked up at Pepper's eyes again. Not quite blue, not quite green. The color of the kind of sea glass that Tony used to pick up whenever his mother brought him to the beach. Tony would pick up the glass, and then his mother would tell him to set it back down before he hurt himself or hurt someone else.

"I don't want Stark Industries to keep building weapons," he said at last, and he was glad that Pepper didn't stop dancing right then, even though he could tell from the way Pepper's grip stiffened that she could have. Would have. Might have. And yet, Pepper's expression didn't change, and Tony wasn't sure if that was for better or for worse. "I don't want to keep building things that hurt," Tony said. He glanced over at Peter. "And I think the recent casualties are enough proof of that."

When Pepper didn't speak right away, Tony forced a smile. "I've been thinking about it for a while now," he said, and he tried to keep his voice light, edging a reaction from Pepper. Anything from Pepper. "For a while," he repeated. "And maybe…" He lifted his shoulders. "Stark Industries might not be headed by me anymore. I have to let go of the reins some time."

Pepper furrowed her brow. "What are you—"

"Some time," Tony repeated, holding up their hands as the song came to a stop, "I might have to hand over the controls to someone more competent. Someone who has always been able to keep me sane." He looked at Pepper. "Someone who has been able to keep me, and by extension, the company, sane."

Pepper stopped dancing. Only it didn't look bad, because everyone else had stopped dancing or were starting to curtsey and bow to their partners.

"Mr. Stark—" she started, but Tony dropped her hands.

"I could use a drink right now," he said. "And you?"

Pepper opened her mouth. Closed it. Nodded.

"Excellent," Tony said. "Two drinks. I'll find you."

"You'll find—no, I'll find—"

But Tony didn't hear the rest of what Pepper was going to say, because he was already moving towards one of the servers. After he placed his request, he looked back at Pepper, who had taken to hovering by the side of the ballroom again. They met eyes for a moment, and then Pepper looked away first, a delicate pink tinging her cheeks.

Tony would have gladly gone to her then—would have gladly started the conversation where they left off, but before he could even take a step, he heard a voice that made his skin crawl.

"Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Stark," Quentin said from Tony's shoulder.

Tony did not even bother turning his head around. He could see Quentin looking at him from the corner of his eye; he could feel Quentin's breath right on his shoulder. "I don't think there's too much to fancy," Tony replied, keeping his voice level. "You seemed to know I was coming here the other day."

"Ah, yes, when you were with Mr. Parker."

"See? You have a good memory," Tony said dryly. He kept his eyes on Pepper, but she was making polite conversation with Melinda.

"And how is Mr. Parker?" Quentin asked. "I talked with him earlier tonight—such an interesting young man. I _do _wonder where you've picked someone like him up."

Tony stiffened. "Why does it matter?" he asked, his voice taut.

"It doesn't," Quentin replied. He let out a small huff of laughter. "You don't need to worry about me taking him, Stark. He seems quite content at your side. But still…" He took a step closer to Tony. "He's an interesting young man. Bright future."

Tony saw Peter laughing in the corner with the server girl. For a moment, Peter's eyes lifted up to meet Tony, and the small smile that Peter gave Tony made him want to turn around and shove Quentin into a wall. Instead, Tony looked at Quentin. "Is there something you wanted to tell me, Quentin?" he asked coolly.

Quentin sighed. "Of course," he said. "Silly me." His lips stretched into an unpleasant smile. "I wanted to inform you that I have actually been offered other positions at different companies—I figured I should let you know, just so you could ease your conscience."

"Bold of you to assume I have a conscience," Tony said, and he enjoyed the irritation that flashed across Quentin's face. But then Quentin forced out another odd smile, which made Tony relieved to feel the tap of a server's finger against his shoulders.

"Ah, thank you," Tony said, gladly taking the drinks from the server. He took a longer than necessary sip of his champagne and turning to Quentin, added, "Then, Mr. Beck, I wish you best of luck in your new ventures."

"Thank you," Quentin said, and though his voice remained light, the look in his eyes made Tony glad that they were in a public setting. "You needn't trouble yourself, though. I prefer to make my own luck."

"Mm," Tony murmured into his champagne glass. "Best try to make more if it, then."

And with that, he strode quickly ahead to where Pepper was waiting.

"Is everything alright?" Pepper asked, taking the glass that Tony offered her. "You look—are you already almost done?" She nodded at what Tony realized was a half-empty glass of champagne.

"Couldn't get enough of this," Tony said, tapping the side of the glass. He smiled, and Pepper frowned.

"What happened?" she asked. She searched Tony's face. When Tony wouldn't respond, she said quietly, urgently, "_Tony_."

"Just an old employee—Quentin Beck." Tony murmured. He looked over his shoulder. Quentin wasn't in the spot where he had been just a moment ago. "Who apparently just wanted to tell me of his new ventures." Tony started to raise his glass to his lips, but Pepper quickly lowered it.

"And?" she asked.

Tony swallowed. "He has an odd fascination for Peter." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, like the way his mouth would taste as a child after he was recovering from illness. "And I don't know why. You know I don't like not knowing things."

Pepper looked across the room, and Tony followed her gaze to see, to his relief, that she was watching Peter as well. "He might have just been trying to bother you," she said. "And he may just be annoyed that you've already gotten a new employee. And…well, a different employee." She lifted a shoulder. "No one likes being replaced." She looked back at Tony. "Has Beck…said or done anything to Peter before?"

"They only just met the other day," Tony replied. "I can't imagine they could have ever known each other in the past." He pressed his lips together, tapping his finger on the side of the glass again. "That's another part I don't like. Beck asked about Peter's past. About where he comes from."

"And what's wrong with telling him where Peter comes from?" Pepper asked, frowning.

Tony cast Pepper a sidelong look. "No one else really knows about where Peter comes from. No one at Stark Industries as of now, anyways."

"That he comes from the working district?" Pepper asked. "Or that he was a pickpocket?"

"Both."

"The pickpocket part, I can understand," Pepper mused. "As for the working district…"

"Too much at once for him," Tony replied. "And I don't need someone like Beck trying to pull the rug out from under Peter's feet."

There was a pause.

"You're worried that Beck might sabotage Peter."

"Amongst other things," Tony muttered. "I don't trust him."

"You fired him—I think that's proof enough that you don't trust him," Pepper remarked dryly. She took a sip from the champagne glass. "You said that he's going on to do other things, Tony. Maybe he'll move away."

"Can we guarantee that?" Tony asked.

Pepper opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, a sharp cry cut through the ballroom.

"Doctor!" someone wailed. "Doctor!"

Pepper and Tony exchanged stricken looks. "What—" Pepper started to ask, but then Tony felt someone bump past him and when he looked, there was a man in a long coat already racing down by the doors of the ballroom.

The room had gone unnaturally quiet now, with only the hushed murmurs and stifled cries as the man in the long coat disappeared into the crowd. Tony turned away from the doctor and instead searched the crowds, his chest tightening—Peter—

And he let out a small sigh of relief when he found Peter still standing by the wall, his eyes wide with both shock and confusion as the mumbling of the crowd seemed to grow steadily louder.

"Tony—" Pepper whispered. "What do you think happened?"

"Something not good," Tony replied. He turned to Pepper. "Find May. I have a feeling things might not be—"

"He's dead," someone wailed from the front of the room. Gasps and cries renewed and resounded themselves across the ballroom.

Tony found himself instinctively looking for Peter again, and this time, Peter had seen Tony, too. Tony gestured subtly towards himself, and Peter nodded. He turned to the server next to him, but the server was already walking the other way—maybe to figure out what was going on as well. Under different circumstances, Tony would have laughed at the somewhat embarrassed look Peter gave to the wall, but now, he didn't feel like laughing at all. Peter instead started moving across the room to Tony, meanwhile Pepper had just started to look for May.

"What's going on?" Peter whispered as he reached Tony's side. His face had gone completely white. "Who's dead?"

"I don't think we want to ask that right now," Tony murmured. He craned his neck over the crowd, and Pepper returned a moment later, an equally pale-faced May in tow.

May let out a small choking sound and grasped onto Peter. "I thought for a moment—"

"We don't know who," Peter said quickly, squeezing May's hand. He turned to Tony. "Mr. Stark, what are we—"

But then the room had gone completely quiet again, and Peter stopped talking.

There was a rustle around the room instead, and Tony lifted his head to find that everyone's heads had eerily swiveled towards his way. And what was even eerier, everyone was staring at him in a mixture of fear and disgust and…

"What's going on?" Peter asked in a small voice.

Tony wished he could answer, but his lips felt too tightly locked together. His feet shifted forward, and for a moment, Tony saw himself moving towards the front of the ballroom, towards the doctor who was standing up above a familiar body.

Quentin Beck was sprawled out on the marble floor, his eyes staring vacantly up at the ceiling. And above him, the doctor held a smooth button. But as Tony came closer, he realized that the button wasn't a button at all. Rather, it was a small, shining device with what Tony knew was the Stark Industries insignia.

The doctor, as though waiting for Tony, pressed the device into Tony's hand. Tony could feel everyone's eyes boring into him as he flipped the round object over in his hand. A sharp needle glared right up at him.

"Poison," the doctor said quietly. "Loaded into something straight out of Stark Industries, it would seem."

* * *

**A/N: **_And the plot thickens. _

_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always well appreciated!_


	12. TWELVE

**TWELVE. **

"Stark Industries," the doctor repeated, holding up the round object. Peter thought it was a pin at first, but the needle on the back wasn't like the needles that Peter would see May use when mending or making dresses. A chill ran over Peter's spine as the doctor asked, "Do you know anything about this, Mr. Stark?"

Peter heard a sharp inhale of breath, and he turned to see Pepper staring intensely at Tony, her eyes wider and clearer than he had ever seen them. For a moment, Peter wondered if Pepper thought Tony was actually responsible—but then he saw May reach out to Pepper, and the way the two women locked pained gazes made Peter ashamed of having any doubt about Pepper's loyalties.

"I wouldn't," Tony replied now. "May I?"

The doctor dropped the round object into what Peter imagined was Tony's outstretched hand. There was a slight ripple through the crowd as Tony pocketed the object. "Calm down," Tony said, lifting his head to the ballroom. Peter couldn't see Tony's face, yet just from Tony's words alone, he could see the mask of calm that must have shielded his features now. Clearing his throat, Tony added, "I'm not responsible for any of this. That includes the unfortunate…" He looked down, and this time, Peter could see that he was staring at the sprawled out form of Quentin Beck. "Death of Mr. Beck." Tony lifted his head up again. "That's all I have to say on the matter."

And then Tony turned around towards Peter and Pepper and May, and for a moment, Peter's eyes met Tony's. But then Tony's eyes skirted away from Peter, and he tipped his head at no one in particular. "Have a nice rest of the night," he said, and he walked away from the crowd.

Even without questioning, Peter knew that Tony was already on his way out of the building. He wordlessly trailed after Tony and Pepper. But as Peter walked behind Tony, he saw the shift in the crowd around him. It started with the gentle push of people moving outwards, towards the walls—and then, with every step closer to the doors, the gentle push of people turned into a full wave of people making a wide berth around Tony.

Peter's face flushed as the whispers started. The pointing. The twisted looks and glares.

And yet, Tony's head never dropped down once. If Peter hadn't been watching the crowd himself, he wouldn't have even thought there was anything wrong.

Before Tony reached the doors, one of the members of the crowd stepped forward, and Peter held his breath, expecting—he wasn't sure, maybe an outburst. But it was only Coulson, who murmured something in Tony's ear.

Peter saw the tight smile Tony gave Coulson, and then without another word, the doors opened before Tony, and the night air came rushing into the ballroom. Despite the fact he was wearing the heavy jacket that came with his suit, Peter shivered. He turned around once, and his eyes found the servers who were standing at the center of the ballroom. Peter saw a flash of white cloth, and he knew that Quentin Beck's body would probably be moved out of sight.

"Peter," May whispered, and Peter turned back around. "The carriage is here."

Peter nodded, though his head felt detached from the rest of his body. He walked forward—or followed May, who gently pulled him after Tony and Pepper. They all boarded the carriage, and the ride back to the Stark manor was silent.

* * *

"Tony—" Pepper started to say when the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Stark manor, but before she could continue, Tony pushed open the door. "Tony—"

"See that Ms. and Mr. Parker are comfortable," Tony only said, not even looking at Pepper. Or anyone else, for that matter. And with that, he strode out of the carriage and walked into the manor without so much as a backward glance.

"Is he…?" May started to ask, but the remainder of the question hung in the air.

"I suspect Mr. Stark has certain things to think about," Pepper replied, her words sounding hollow. She turned to Peter and May. She tried for a smile, but even Pepper Potts couldn't keep up a calm façade after tonight. Her smile faltering, Pepper only said wearily, "You two must be tired. We should go inside."

May and Peter nodded wordlessly. Pepper led the way indoors, and once they were in the foyer, Pepper explained that there would be other servants ready to help with any undressing and baths. "Now if you'll excuse me," Pepper said, bowing her head, "I should attend to Mr. Stark."

"Of course," May said, and with that, Pepper walked up the stairs.

The moment Pepper was gone, May let out a long, shaky breath. Then, turning to Peter, she asked, "Are you alright?"

Peter thought about the white sheet that had settled over Quentin's body. Even indoors, he still felt cold. "I don't know," he replied. He looked down at May. "I didn't know Mr. Beck that well…but he was…" He thought about the genuine smile that Quentin had given Peter back at Stark Industries, but then he remembered how Tony had so obviously disproved of any admiration that Peter might have had for Quentin. "He was kind when I first met him."

"Terrible thing that happened to him," May said quietly. She shook her head. "And a terrible thing for Mr. Stark…"

Peter blinked. "You don't think he did it?" he asked.

"No," May replied. She raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"No," Peter said, and he surprised himself at how quickly and naturally the response seemed to come out. "I mean—" He lifted his shoulders. "People think he bombed our district, but I don't think he did." He gazed up at the stairwell, as though Tony would come back down any minute. "I don't think so," he repeated. Peter turned to May. "And you don't think he did it."

"I might not know Mr. Stark as well as you do," May started, and Peter couldn't help but let out a short, disbelieved huff of laughter. "I'm being serious, Peter." May squeezed Peter's arm. "The man gave you a job without even knowing you. He brought you on that tour around Stark Industries—and from what Ms. Potts told me, he tried to help you get ready for the gala."

"She didn't mention that I walked out, did she?" Peter said, smiling crookedly.

"Is that why you said you didn't feel like you belonged?" May asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Peter lifted his shoulders in halfhearted response.

"Oh, Peter…" May reached up, her fingers carding through Peter's hair. "Mr. Stark didn't hire you for your dancing skills. Mr. Stark didn't help you—help _us_—for your ability to tie a bowtie."

"You knew how to tie a bowtie," Peter pointed out.

"That comes with my own job description," May replied pointedly. She dropped her hand from Peter's hair. "But he sees something in you, Peter. He must care about you, otherwise you wouldn't still be here." She squeezed Peter's hand. "And I don't think he would have hurt anyone in front of the people he cares about." She looked up at the stairwell. "So no, Peter, I don't think he could have been responsible for that man's death. I don't think he's the kind of person to inflict that kind of damage before the people he likes."

"How can you tell that for sure?" Peter asked.

It was May's turn to shrug. "If not you, then I don't think Mr. Stark would at least hurt anyone in front of Ms. Potts." At Peter's smile, May laughed knowingly. "That man probably thinks he has everyone fooled—that woman, too. But really, both are rather terrible at hiding their true thoughts." She let go of Peter's hand. "But if I am to be honest, then I would think that if you still have insecurities about Mr. Stark's regard for you, then…" She lifted her eyes up to Peter. "That warrants a certain discussion between you two, doesn't it?"

Peter looked down at his feet. "I'll sound foolish in front of him. And he has too much on his mind."

"True," May said, though she didn't sound resigned. "He must have many thoughts running through his head now—but I don't necessarily think you're right about the possibility of Mr. Stark think you sound foolish. He doesn't seem the type to care for foolish people."

* * *

After May had gone up to get ready for bed ("Or at least try," May had said with a wan smile), Peter found himself standing in front of Tony's office. His hands balled themselves up into sweaty fists, then he unwound his fingers from his grip. Then he would ball his hands up again, and then he'd let his fingers go, and he'd repeat the process until the little crescents of his nails against his palms had long imprinted themselves into his skin.

Peter suddenly wished that he had at least changed out of this uncomfortable suit. He wished he was back in his working clothes, at the very least—in clothes that felt less like a costume. And then Peter wished he hadn't been standing in front of this door at all. He suddenly wished he was perched on an opposite windowsill, somewhere far away where Tony couldn't see him at all. Speaking to Tony would be easier that way—with some kind of medium between them.

Peter drew in a long breath. He let his hands fall to his sides. He would open Tony's door, walk in. Apologize—_actually_ apologize—for storming out yesterday.

Peter raised his hand, ready to knock, only to come to a short stop at the sound of feet coming down another flight of stairs. Peter's hand still curled over Tony's office door, he turned and looked up to see Tony actually coming down the stairs. His hair was slightly damp, and unlike Peter, he was wearing but a blouse and a pair of trousers.

"Peter," Tony said, and he sounded so surprised that Peter wondered if this was a good idea or not. "I thought you would be asleep by now. It's late."

"It's not that late," Peter said quickly, and he winced at how defensive he sounded. "I mean—I've stayed up later before." That didn't sound much better. "We've stayed up later before." Peter wondered if he should give up talking altogether. "Look, Mr. Stark—" Peter dropped his hand to his side. It bounced limply off the side of his trousers, and Peter quickly moved his hand behind his back to keep his limbs from flailing any longer. "I just—" He flicked his eyes to the door and then to Tony, who was still on the stairs. Tony's eyebrows were slowly creeping up to his hairline, and Peter hoped his face wasn't as red as it felt.

"I just wanted to talk to you," Peter finished limply. He swallowed, and forcing his eyes up to Tony's face, he added, "And apologize."

Tony's eyebrows furrowed together. "Apologize," he repeated.

"I know it's not a good time," Peter said hurriedly. "And you don't have to listen to me right now, but I thought—" Peter cut himself off. He had figured Tony would tell him to stop speaking by now, just so Peter could save himself from finishing the sentence, but Tony was still watching him. Waiting.

"You thought it would be…?" Tony only asked with a gesture. _Finish. _

Peter shifted his eyes to the floor. "I thought it would help," he said in a small voice, and he winced at his words. As if Peter could ever help Tony Stark with anything, when Peter couldn't even enter a room without needing his supervision.

"Help with what, exactly?" Tony asked from above Peter.

Peter stiffened. He wished he could sink through the floorboards and into his own room—the guestroom. Not his. Nothing here was his. This entire world wasn't his. "Well…tonight, Mr. Stark," Peter said, and the words came out of him jerkily, as though being tugged out of him by a taut rope. "It couldn't have been…good." Peter winced again. Eloquence, Peter.

"It wasn't." Tony sighed, though it sounded more like a breath being heaved out of him. As though Tony was forcing himself to breathe out. "But then again, things rarely are in this business." There was a pause, and then Peter heard a short, halfhearted laugh. "It'd be boring otherwise."

Peter forced up his head. "Mr. Stark?" he asked.

Tony made his way down the steps, hands tucked into his pockets. "We can talk," Tony said, pushing open the office door. "And you can at least take off your jacket now—you don't need to wear that suit for the whole night."

Peter hastily shrugged off his jacket and trailed behind Tony. As the room slowly flickered to life, Tony leaned against one of the workbenches. He swiped something off the bench. Peter couldn't tell what it was at first, just that it seemed spherical and large. Tony thumbed over the material for a moment, and then, not even bothering to lift his eyes, he said, "So."

"So?" Peter wished his voice hadn't lifted as though he was asking a question.

"So," Tony repeated. "You said you wanted to say something."

Peter flushed. "Right." He shifted his jacket in between his hands. "Mr. Stark—" He stopped. Tried to start again. "I know that you've done so much to help Aunt May and me. And I—we—" Peter's cheeks warmed as Tony lifted his head. Peter wasn't sure if he wanted Tony to look at him or not—if these words would come out easier if Tony was looking at him or not. "We really appreciate…everything." Peter shifted the jacket in his hands again. He passed it back and forth between his hands, wondering if it was absorbing the sweat that was gathering in his palms. "But—"

"Ah, yes," Tony said with a halfhearted laugh. "I sensed a 'but' coming."

Peter stopped. "You did?"

Tony set the spherical object behind him. "There's always a 'but' to these things," he said, his tone so matter-of-fact that Peter wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved in the words. Peter lowered his eyes. The apology still sat on his tongue, but now that Tony knew—

"I wanted to tell you first," Peter said in a small voice. He squeezed the jacket in his hands. "I actually wanted to tell you earlier today—and I would have, too, but things just moved too fast, and I wasn't sure it'd be a good time."

"Well," Tony said, and Peter heard the slight pang of metal lifting from metal. He imagined Tony picking up the object again, fiddling with it as he would sometimes do. When Tony spoke again, Peter could hear the strained smile in his voice. "For future reference, resigning is always best done two weeks before you actually plan to leave—"

Peter jerked his head up. "Resigning?" he asked, his grip suddenly loosening on the jacket.

Tony waved a hand. "That's the actual word for it," he said, though he didn't see the stunned look Peter knew he was wearing now. "It sounds much more professional than 'quitting'." He leaned back further against the workbench. "I'll still suspect you won't have a place to stay, of course—but I know I can call up some hotel friends of mine to make some arrangements—"

"Mr. Stark," Peter cut off, "I'm not resigning."

Now it was Tony's turn to stare at Peter. "You—"

"I didn't come here to _resign_," Peter said. "I came here to apologize for misbehaving during the dance lessons!"

Tony's face flashed with so many different emotions that Peter couldn't quite tell what the other man was feeling—in one second, Tony's eyebrows had lifted and lowered in surprise, and in the other, Tony's eyebrows were knitted together in the way that only confused people could have.

"You…wanted to apologize for the _dance lessons?_" Tony asked, the disbelief in his voice matching the disbelief Peter felt now.

"Yes!" Peter cried out, throwing his hands apart, his jacket swinging to the side. "I…" He set the jacket down on a workbench and pushing his now empty hands back together, he added in a slightly (but only slightly) less exasperated tone, "I thought you were…embarrassed by my outburst. It _was _embarrassing." He scratched the side of his neck, which had quickly heated in the last few seconds of speaking. "Machines. I'm better with machines and…that sort of thing than I am with galas and ballrooms and talking to…" Peter waved his hand at the door. "Talking to _those _people. Am I allowed to talk back? Am I supposed to shake their hands both before and after talking to them? Am I supposed to—" Peter stopped short. "I actually know the answer to my other questions, but Mr. Stark, I don't _know _how to…" He dropped his hand against his side.

"You don't know how to what?" Tony asked. His voice was quiet.

Peter tilted his head up at the ceiling. "I don't…" He swallowed. His throat hardened, and suddenly, Peter forgot how to swallow. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "I don't fit."

There was a silence that seemed to stretch on and on between the two.

Peter was wondering if he should just walk out of the office right then and there (_maybe walking out of the dance lessons had just been good practice,_ Peter thought), but then Tony spoke.

"I didn't hire you because you knew how to dance or talk to stuffy businessmen, Peter," Tony said slowly.

"You hired me because I returned a pocket watch that my aunt told me to return," Peter replied.

"Only partially—Peter, look at me."

Peter forced his eyes back down on Tony.

Tony looked tired, and Peter thought of the man who had been pacing back and forth that first night, back when Peter had just been hired. Still tired then, still tired now—and yet, when Peter met Tony's eyes, his gaze wasn't as worn as it had been just earlier that night.

"I don't care if you know how to dance or not," Tony said. "I don't care if you step on people's feet or if you bother the tailors because you didn't raise your arms high enough." He pressed his hands against the workbench. "I hired you because you're a bright kid. Quick." He snapped his fingers. Peter blinked, and Tony smiled—a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. "You might not have thought it, but I saw you—and I remembered you—in the street. Right as you were about to steal my watch, I suppose."

Peter remembered how his eyes had just briefly caught onto Tony's that night, too. How he had been stricken that he was actually standing that close to Tony, but then he had taken the watch quickly and ran off with it, safe in the shadows and the rooftops when Tony had realized it was missing.

"You were different," Tony said now. He picked up the sphere from the workbench, and this time, Peter could make out a glint of scarlet and gold. The sphere also didn't look too much like a sphere anymore, but Peter still couldn't see the full features of whatever it was Tony held in his hands. "You said you saw a different future."

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony looked up from the object in his hands. "People don't like it when change happens, Peter," he said. "Even though change…" He tapped the object thoughtfully in his hands. "Even though change might just do some good." He regarded Peter carefully. "Things are changing for you, too. Are you afraid of that?"

"A little." Peter responded faster than he thought he would.

A corner of Tony's lips twitched. "I'd be worried if you weren't," he replied. He shifted himself against the workbench. "But that makes the change a little more interesting, doesn't it?"

"Maybe." Peter met Tony's eyes and allowed the briefest of smiles to come to his lips. It was just as timid and as small as Tony's, but it was a start.

"Maybe," Tony repeated, as though sounding the word out for himself. "I'll take 'maybe'."

"What about you?" Peter asked. At Tony's lifted eyebrows, Peter asked, "What did you…what're you planning to change?"

For a moment, Peter wondered if he shouldn't have spoken at all—if he had crossed some sort of boundary, because Tony didn't say anything at first. "I'm sorry," Peter started to say, but Tony shook his head.

"You asked a question," Tony replied. "Not a bad question, either." He pushed himself off the workbench and, letting the sphere roll away from his hand, he said, "When I was younger, I used to fix things. A broken carriage, a stove, the faucet…" He smiled wistfully. "And while I was doing all that, my father was making the blueprints for Stark Industries' first weapons and armor." Not a wistful smile, Peter realized as he watched Tony make his way to another workbench—this one with more materials. No, not a wistful smile—a sad one. "He made his beginnings with the police department, you know. And the military. He built a shield by the time I was a young man—this great, big shield that he refused to give to anyone until he met this perfect golden boy of a police captain."

Tony pushed aside some of the tools from the workbench, and Peter caught a glimpse of a blueprint—one with a design that he hadn't seen before. "The captain was everything my good old father envisioned a hero to be—brave, patriotic, noble, all the ridiculous great things. I'm fairly sure my father liked this captain more than he liked me." There was a short huff of laughter from Tony. "Father eventually built things that weren't shields. Things that started to hurt more than protect. And I…" Tony rolled out the blueprint, and this time, Peter walked forward until he was right at Tony's side. He looked down at the blueprint and found the design for the suit that they had been making just a few days ago.

When Peter looked over at Tony, he was only looking back down at the design with a thoughtful expression on his face. "I wanted to build something better," he said quietly. He pushed aside the blueprint quickly, but Peter kept his eyes trained on the design. "And now…" Another short laugh escaped from Tony. "It seems like the universe has just decided to let me know exactly what happens when I don't do something fast enough."

Peter looked up quickly at Tony. "Mr. Stark…" he started slowly. "You don't mean that…" When Tony didn't look over, Peter asked, "You don't mean that the…things that happened wouldn't have happened if you'd made this…armor, did you?" He gestured at the blueprint sprawled across the workbench.

"It certainly would have helped prevent the damage," Tony replied.

"But there was no way you could have known what was going to happen," Peter protested. He reached across the workbench and dragged the blueprint back. He pushed it in front of Tony. "You shouldn't be asking yourself what could have happened if the suit was done, Mr. Stark." He tapped the blueprint and looked up at Tony dead in the eyes. "You should be asking yourself what you're going to do when the suit is done."

A silence hung heavily between the two. For a moment, Peter wondered if he had gone too far—he became a little too aware of the ringing in his ears, became a little too aware of how he was literally right next to Tony, but then Tony smiled. A slow, worn smile, but still, in the dim light, Peter thought it was the brightest thing that he had seen that evening.

"Since when did you start talking back?" Tony only asked.

Peter's cheeks flushed, but he didn't look away this time. "You want to build something better," he replied. He pushed the blueprint closer to Tony. "Then you should build it."

"We're going to build it."

Peter blinked. "We?"

Tony reached over to the other workbench and grabbed the spherical-like object. He slammed it down on the space in front of Peter, and he jumped back just a little to see that the sphere wasn't a sphere at all—rather, it was a gleaming helmet of scarlet and golden tones. The headpiece of the suit.

"We," Tony repeated. He looked down at Peter. "Who else is going to keep up with me?"

Peter felt his lips stretch out into a grin. But as he reached for the helmet, an idea came to him. "Mr. Beck said something about being interviewed with new places."

Tony's brow furrowed. "What does Quentin have to do with this?" he asked.

Peter glanced over at Tony. "It's just…" He shrugged. "Someone killed Mr. Beck—and you said that you let him go, right?" When Tony nodded, Peter asked, "Why would someone want to kill Mr. Beck of all the people you fired? Maybe…" He drummed his fingers against the helmet.

A strange trance seemed to settle over Tony. "He said something about companies finding some of his designs being interesting…"

Peter looked up at Tony. "Do you think…" He started, but his words drifted. He tried again. "Do you think someone could have killed Mr. Beck to find out what he was designing?"

Tony looked back down at Peter. "Worth finding out, isn't it?"

* * *

**A/N: **_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! I am now officially in the full swing of midterms, so that's been fun. My only source of sanity these days is writing this fic, haha (send help)._


	13. THIRTEEN

**THIRTEEN. **

"So you think that the attack on the working sector and Mr. Beck's murder are connected?" Steve asked, a pencil poised over his notepad.

"It might," Tony replied, and for once, he wasn't annoyed at Steve's insistence on taking down every note. "Peter thought of it first."

Natasha raised her eyebrow. "So the spider's still around," she mused. A corner of her lips twitched into her typical sly smile. Leaning back against her chair, Natasha only hummed, "Interesting." At Tony's side glance, Natasha lifted her shoulders. "I figured you'd keep him around Stark Industries, but I didn't think he'd still be in this building."

Steve turned to Tony. "He's still staying here with you?" he asked.

Tony pocketed his hands. "Seeing that his former home was blown up, I didn't see any reason to send him away," he replied. At Steve's stunned expression, Tony rolled his eyes. "You can take note of that if you'd like, Rogers."

"Oh, no, I don't think Steve will forget this," Natasha said from her seat.

"And how'd _you _figure out that Peter was still here?" Tony asked, looking over at the woman. "You're not spying on _me_ now, are you?"

Natasha examined her nails. "First of all, Tony, I don't call it spying—I call it _keeping tabs_." She lifted her eyes at Tony. "And second of all, I didn't have to keep tabs on you to know that Peter Parker is still at your residency. Your face is enough proof that he is."

Tony frowned. "What's that supposed to—"

"Mr. Stark?"

Everyone turned to see Peter standing in the doorway—or hiding in the doorway. He tentatively looked around the room, and it didn't help that Natasha was still smiling like a cat who had just caught prey. "I can come back another time," Peter said.

"No," Tony said quickly. "Actually, you might want to be here for this."

When Peter hesitated, it was Steve who added, "Mr. Stark was just telling us about your suspicions related to Mr. Beck's death." Steve held up the notepad. "Seemed like a good idea."

Peter gave Steve a small smile and took a tentative step into the room. Seating himself across from Natasha, Peter asked, "So what now?"

"So now we go find out what Beck's been up to," Tony said. He looked over at Steve. "We'll be able to search his home after his death, I assume."

At Peter's bewildered look, Natasha explained, "Steve has a few reservations about looking into a dead man's home without any solid evidence."

"I think searching Mr. Beck's home might give us some clues," Steve said, "and we're _allowed_ to search his home, but I'd rather only let this happen once." He looked up at Tony from his seat. "And only because I care about where this case is going."

Tony deliberately looked towards Natasha instead. "I don't suppose you have any moral issues surrounding the investigation?"

Natasha smirked. "Did you even have to ask?"

Peter looked at Steve. "I don't understand," he only said. "Why don't you want to search Mr. Beck's home?"

"It's not that I don't want to," Steve replied, closing his notepad. Slipping it into his pocket, he continued, "It's that there needs to be some process when it comes to investigating the homes of others. Too many police men go into homes without a good reason, and they wind up either humiliating the homeowner or sometimes worse." For a moment, Steve's face darkened. "It's a problem when no one knows where or when to draw the line."

"Well, we'll have you here for the moral support, Steve," Natasha said loftily, pushing herself away from the table.

"And hopefully more than that," Steve replied, standing up to follow after her. As the two walked out of the room, Steve added over his shoulder, "We'll be ready whenever you are, Mr. Stark."

At that, Peter whipped his head up at Tony. "You're going with them/?" he asked, stunned. "To Beck's home?" Before Tony could respond, Peter asked, "Wouldn't that be dangerous?" He stood up from the table. "What if the people who killed Beck are hiding out there?"

"We'll be fine," Tony replied, lowering his hand in Peter's direction as though that alone could sit him down. But when Peter didn't sit back down, Tony let out a small huff that he hoped sounded like laughter. "We've been through worse. This will just be another day at work."

"No, another day at work looks like the office," Peter pressed. He walked around the table and strode right up to Tony so that the two were facing each other. Tony blinked and, after just a moment of pondering the situation, he said, "Look at that energy."

But Peter didn't smile. "There could be bad people waiting."

"There's bad people waiting everywhere, Peter," Tony replied lightly. "Surely, you know that."

"But you could get hurt." And there—the boldness in Peter's voice evaporated, and the way he looked up at Tony reminded Tony suddenly of how he looked in the street, or how he looked on that second day, when Peter was stumbling through the doorway with his aunt. No parents, Tony remembered, and for that second, time stood still. Tony wondered if this was how Peter's parents had left—with a promise to be back from some place, only to have bad people waiting in the corners. Or Peter's uncle.

But Tony wasn't here to be a parental figure. Tony would have laughed out loud if he was alone at the irony. His father hadn't done anything in terms of parenting—just left behind a company and some paperwork in typical Howard Stark fashion.

"I'll be fine," Tony heard himself say. "Natasha and Captain Rogers are some of the best fighters I know. If there are bad people waiting, then they'll—we'll—take care of them."

Peter's jaws clenched. "I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not."

Peter lifted an eyebrow. "Why not?" he asked. "Because it's dangerous? I've faced worse."

Tony pressed his lips together. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"You know what."

"No, I don't." Peter lifted his chin. "Captain Rogers said I was the one who pointed out the lead to Mr. Beck. So doesn't that mean I should come along?"

Tony pushed his hands up to his face, trying to swallow back his frustration. "You just talked about how it was too dangerous for _me_ to go out—what makes you think that it'll be _any _safer for a _boy_?"

"I'm seventeen," Peter shot back.

"You're seventeen?" Tony asked, taken aback, but then he shook his head. "Doesn't matter. You're still not coming." When Peter opened his mouth to protest, Tony asked, "What do you think your aunt will think if you get hurt?"

Peter closed his mouth, and Tony nodded, more to himself than to Peter. "You could get hurt," Tony said in a low voice. "And unlike me, Peter, you've got someone whose world would break if you didn't come back."

"That's not true," Peter said quickly, and when Tony looked at him, Peter cast his eyes to the ground. "I know Aunt May would be upset if I got hurt, but what you said about yourself—that's not true. People would be upset if you didn't come back." Tony watched the way Peter's cheek jumped, imagined Peter's teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek as he said those words.

Tony looked up at the ceiling. "Peter—" He started to say, but what would he say next? What could he say next?

"We gotta catch whoever's trying to drag your name through the mud," Peter said instead. He looked up at Tony. "They hurt my aunt. They took away our home. This matters for me, too."

Tony cast his eyes back down on Peter. "If you get hurt—"

"I won't." Peter shook his head, his eyes wide. "I can get away from places fast, remember?"

"That won't matter if we find someone with a pistol."

"So I'll just be faster."

Tony pressed his lips together. "The minute I even think something's wrong—"

"I'll be out of there," Peter finished for him, and Tony didn't know whether he liked that Peter finished his sentence or not. Whether Peter seemed too easygoing about the idea that they were about to head long into danger. Just last night, Peter had been trembling about the idea of going into a ballroom—_justifiably so_, a small part of Tony argued—but today, the idea of springing into some unknown area where Peter could get hurt seemed like child's play.

Tony regarded Peter warily. "Why do I get the feeling this kind of thing isn't new for you?" he asked as they started out the dining room door.

Peter lifted his shoulders. "It's not," he replied simply, and Tony decided he didn't need to ask any more questions.

* * *

"Took you two long enough to get out," Natasha said, leaning against the wall as Peter and Tony entered the foyer. "I was about to tell Steve to drag you out." As Steve opened his mouth to protest, Natasha added, "Or I could have just gotten Pepper." With that, Natasha bobbed her head up at the stairs, and when Tony turned around, Pepper was making her way down to the foyer.

"While you're all off sleuthing, I'm going to be looking through any of Mr. Beck's correspondence while he was still at Stark Industries," Pepper said as she walked forward. "We could find something through those. And if you find anything at his home, then…" She gave Natasha a small nod.

"We'll bring in anything that looks helpful," Natasha supplied. She looked over at Tony and Peter. "I'm assuming you two are done arguing about who gets to go where?"

"Enough with the jokes, Romanoff," Tony said, taking the coat that Pepper offered him. "I thought you said we needed to be serious."

"That's for when we actually get to Mr. Beck's residence," Natasha replied lightly, but when she and Tony met eyes, all Tony could see was the faint glimmer in those green-blue irises that reminded Tony of how a cat looked before jumping on a mouse. "Come along, then," she said, nodding at Peter specifically. "Bet you didn't think this would be in the job description for working at Stark Industries."

Peter lifted his shoulders in the same way he had just before. "There could be worse things," he said. Then, after a pause, he added, "Not that this isn't bad already. It's just…" He looked over at Tony quickly, and then back to Natasha. "What I mean is," Peter said, exhaling, "I'm not going to complain."

A corner of Natasha's lips quirked upwards. "Well, at least that makes you a little different from the typical employee," she said, and flicking a strand of scarlet hair over her shoulder, she added, "Now, let's see what Mr. Beck has to offer us."

With that, she swung open the front door with a flourish. She stepped out first, Steve following closely behind. As Tony and Peter walked forward, Tony hesitated in the doorway. He looked over at Peter. "You don't have to come along," he said quietly.

Peter's eyes were steady when he looked back up at Tony. "I know," he replied just as quietly. "But I'm still coming."

Tony turned back around to face the carriage pulling up in front of the doors. "Don't wander off." And as Peter nodded, Tony felt something tighten in his chest. And as Peter stepped into the carriage, Tony lifted his face briefly to the sky—cloudy but oddly bright, as though the sun was fighting to break through the thick wall of grey. He focused back on the carriage just in time to see Peter seat himself across from Steve.

"Captain Rogers," Peter said by way of greeting as Tony stepped into the carriage.

"Peter Parker," Steve replied, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "How have you been doing?"

Tony closed the door behind himself, the snap of the door puncturing the small conversation between the two. He only heard Peter say, "I've been fine. I'm learning more about new…subjects."

"What kind of new things?" Steve asked.

Peter shrugged. "Engineering, mostly," he replied. "It's been a process."

At that, Steve laughed—a low, drawling laugh that always seemed to make people around him smile. _Golden boy_, Tony thought, turning towards the window. He heard Steve say, "When I first joined the police, I had to learn a lot of new things, too."

"Really?" Peter asked, and though Tony couldn't see him, he could see the disbelief etched in Peter's face as he undoubtedly took in Steve's broad shoulders and easy smile. "Like what?"

"How to throw a punch, for one thing," Steve replied. Tony stiffened. Flicked his eyes at Steve, but the man wasn't looking at him. Tony forced his gaze back out the window, watching the buildings roll past.

"You know how to throw a punch, Rogers," Tony only said. "Don't play that down."

A part of Tony regretted saying that as soon as the words left his mouth, but another part of him relished in the way Steve's eyes slowly lifted up to Tony's face. "Throwing punches isn't something I like to do," he said in a level voice. _Golden boy_, Tony thought again. Never the one to lose his head.

"No," Tony replied. "But you're good at it when you want to."

Peter looked between Tony and Steve, his brow furrowing. "What does—"

"And I'm rather good at throwing knives," Natasha interrupted with a pointed smile at Tony. _Stop talking_, the smile said. "Only lucky me, I'm both not afraid to play that particular skill down, _and _I take pleasure in the activity."

Steve cleared his throat and turned his attention back on Peter. "Learning to throw a punch wasn't the most important thing I learned to do," he said.

"Then what was?" Peter asked. "The most important thing you learned, I mean."

Steve paused. Tony watched some child jump into a rain puddle.

"Letting go of a lost case," Steve said at last. "Difficult lesson, but I had to learn how to do it somehow."

Tony urged himself not to look at Steve this time, even as Peter asked, "Have you had a lot of those?"

"More than you would think," Steve replied, and Tony could hear the sad smile in his voice. "But there was one case that was harder to let go of than the others." This time, Tony could feel Steve's eyes on him. Natasha's, too. "But when no one else wants to solve that case, then you just have to let it go and hope it'll solve itself eventually."

Tony didn't have to look to tell that Peter was frowning. "How does a case solve itself?" he asked.

"Some pieces fall together on their own," Steve replied. "Call it fate…or God or whatever you believe in. But one day, you might open your newspaper and find out that some new piece of evidence just revealed itself in a case and then everyone will know that the case is finished."

"Huh," Peter only said. "Do cases get solved on their own often?"

"Not often," Steve replied. "But sometimes. Just if the world is feeling like granting a miracle one particular day."

"Speaking of miracles," Natasha said as the carriage rolled to a stop. "Seems like we're here."

* * *

Much to Steve's exasperation (and, by extent, Tony's amusement), Natasha broke open the door to Quentin's apartment without so much a moment of hesitation. Waving a hand through the air, Natasha said, "Well, at least it doesn't smell like something died in here." Steve cleared his throat, to which Natasha only rolled her eyes. "Relax, Rogers. I'm sure Mr. Beck was a very tidy little scientist."

"That wasn't the point," Steve grumbled, but he still followed Natasha.

Tony, however, only turned towards Peter. "If at any point you want to leave," he started to say, but Peter shook his head.

"We'll be fine," Peter said, and with that, he ducked into the apartment. Tony swallowed back a sigh and followed after the boy. As Peter ducked into one of the other rooms of the apartment, Tony paused by what seemed to be a sitting room. There were some old newspapers, each of which had a fine layer of dust glossing the cover. He picked up a cushion off an armchair, but he found nothing except more of the armchair. He picked a book out from the bookshelf and rifled halfheartedly through the pages, but nothing fell out—no strange looking document, no blueprints. Tony pushed the book back into the shelf and meandered through what looked like a dining room, only to find that Steve was already in there.

Steve looked up from the table. "Found anything?" he asked.

"No," Tony replied. "If I did, I wouldn't be in here looking for anything, would I?"

"Fair," Steve replied easily. He paused. And then, he said, "Peter seems like a good kid."

"He is," Tony said. "Why, were you expecting different?"

Steve looked at Tony warily. "Don't put words in my mouth, Tony."

"I was only making an observation," Tony said, leaning against a chair. "Or are lost cases not allowed to make observations?"

Steve stiffened. "Tony—"

"No, I get it," Tony replied, putting up his hands. "Lost case. I take pride in that. It was a fair label."

"I didn't mean it like that," Steve said quietly. "You know I didn't."

"Really."

"Really," Steve said, pushing himself away from the dining table. Something had hardened in his face this time, and Tony wasn't sure whether to be happy or annoyed at the sudden reaction. "Because last time I checked, you were the one who told me you didn't want someone like me help fix the problems in your own house."

Tony forced on a tight smile. "Careful, Rogers," he said. "You're walking on thin ice."

"You mean the ice that you thinned out?" Steve asked. He let out a sigh, all the coolness in his voice gone. "I was only trying to help. You knew that. You _know _that. What happened to Howard and Mariah—"

"Stop," Tony cut off, holding up a hand. He met Steve's eyes. "I don't care what you say about Howard, but you don't get to say my mother's name."

Steve's face was pained. "I tried to save them."

"Too late," Tony said, dropping his arms from the chair. "You lost that case." Without waiting for Steve's reply, Tony tore out of the dining room, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. He felt his fist locking onto Steve's jaw, heard the sharp cry from Pepper in the doorway and felt Natasha ripping him away from Steve in the office. Remembered yelling at Steve—he couldn't remember what exactly he had been saying, but he remembered Steve walking out of the building, and that had been that.

Tony stopped. He was in a small kitchen. Like the living room, there were some newspapers spread out across the counter, each of them covered with the same film of dust, but unlike the other rooms, this one smelled strongly of coffee, which Tony didn't find surprising. Everyone was a coffee drinker, especially when work required one to stay up all night. Tony was about to walk out of the kitchen and make his way to one of the other rooms when he saw something move in the air.

Tony froze and turned. A cup was sitting on top of one of the newspapers, and as Tony came closer, he looked down at what looked like coffee sitting in the cup.

And it was still steaming.

Before Tony could react, there was a loud shout from one of the other rooms.

Tony's heart plunged. He knew that voice. "Peter?" he called, and he bolted from the kitchen. He heard other footsteps hurrying forward, and by the time he found Peter, Steve and Natasha were already following behind, too.

Tony stopped short in the doorway of a bedroom. Peter's eyes were wide, and he only pointed a finger to the wall. "I think I found something," he said in a small voice.

"What…" Tony walked through the doorway and followed Peter's line of vision up to the wall. Or what should have been a wall or wallpaper or paint or anything, really, except for the large map spread out above the desk. Tony's mouth dried as he took a step closer to the large diagram of the city. There were little scraps of fabric and bits of string attached to the map, and with his heart plunging into his stomach, Tony recognized a few of the spots marked by the string.

"There's where May and I were living," Peter said in a small voice, and his finger brushed against a spot marked by a red piece of fabric. He slowly turned to Tony, and his eyes were so wide that Tony was suddenly reminded of the same boy that had bumped into him on that first day. Alert. Nervous. "Do you think he…" Peter swallowed. "Was Mr. Beck responsible for this?"

Tony looked back up at the map. "I can't think of why else this map would be in here," he murmured.

"But then who killed him?" Natasha asked from behind. "Someone who knew what was going on?"

"Or maybe someone who wanted to take over his little project," Steve said grimly. He stepped forward and took down the map, and Tony couldn't even be bothered to stop him from doing it, not with Peter still staring as though someone had just pulled the floor out from under him.

"He's dead now," Tony told Peter. "He can't do anything."

Peter slowly looked up at Tony. "I didn't think…" He swallowed. "I didn't think Mr. Beck would actually—"

"Mr. Stark's right," Steve said, tucking the map behind his back so that Peter couldn't see it. "If Mr. Beck is dead, then he can't go around blowing up any more buildings."

"I wouldn't count on that," Natasha said darkly. When Steve, Tony, and Peter turned to look at her, she nodded at the map in Steve's hands. "You said it yourself, Steve. Someone might have wanted to take over his project. Maybe that's why he was killed. Someone wanted to give the attacks a little spin for themselves." She crossed her arms. "All I'm saying is that we're not out of the clear yet. I don't like this at all. Just a map waiting out here in the open—doesn't this seem too easy?"

Before Tony could respond, the creak of a door opening sounded from nearby.

Everyone froze.

Natasha flicked her eyes up at Tony and Steve. "Did any of you think that there was someone coming back here?" she whispered.

A chill ran up Tony's spine. "The coffee," he whispered. "It was still hot."

* * *

**A/N: **_*cues dramatic music* As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always greatly appreciated!_


	14. FOURTEEN

**FOURTEEN. **

Peter's heartbeat sounded too loud to his ears. He looked over at Tony, wondering if the man could hear the thud-thud-thud of his heart crashing against his chest, but Tony's eyes were trained on the door frame. He saw Tony's hand twitch out of the corner of his eye, saw him slip his other hand into his pocket. From the way his wrist jolted, Peter suspected Tony was squeezing something, but he couldn't tell what. For a moment, Peter wondered if Tony was going to pull out a weapon, but nothing came out.

Then, the door banged open.

Peter flinched, and he felt Tony tug him backwards. Behind him. Peter sucked in a breath, wondering if he should resist, but Tony's grip was strong, and Peter suspected that any movement he made would be futile.

Natasha lifted a finger to her lips. "Wait," she whispered, and floorboards not even creaking under her steps, Natasha made her way to the door frame. Peter held his breath. Natasha looked back on them and gesturing at them to stay put, she set out of the door.

"Nat—" Steve started to say, just as a loud, high-pitched scream pierced the apartment.

Peter felt Tony's grip on him tighten. "Romanoff?" he called, but then there was a hurried, "No, no, no, I'm not going to hurt you—please put that down—_Steve!_"

Peter looked up at the police captain, who didn't even hesitate. He bolted out the door, and then Peter heard, "What—oh. Sorry, ma'am—no, we're not—police business." Peter heard some more mumbled apologies and then there was a pause.

"Is everything okay?" Peter whispered, turning his gaze towards Tony. He held up his arm, which Tony's hand was still clamped over. "Can we go?"

Tony looked at his hand over Peter's arm as though noticing it for the first time. "Ah," he said, and he let go quickly. Clearing his throat, he called out, "Rogers? Romanoff?"

"It's fine," came Natasha's voice, and then she popped her head into the room. A strand of her red hair dangled in front of her face, and she seemed a bit annoyed, but there wasn't a scratch on her that Peter could see. "We just surprised the landlady." She jerked her head towards the living area direction. "Come out." She eyed the space between Peter and Tony and added, "Besides the fact that she tried to hit my head with a newspaper, she's harmless, in case any of you were worried."

"Newspapers are fine," Peter said weakly just as Tony asked, "What was that supposed to mean?"

Peter looked over at Tony again, but he was already shaking his head and grumbling, "Come on—can't keep them waiting, I suppose."

"No," Peter agreed, and he trailed after Tony out into the living room.

Sure enough, there was an old lady standing in the middle of the living room, a stack of letters held in her hand and a steaming cup in the other. _The coffee_, Peter thought, remembering that Tony had mentioned that there was still a steaming cup in the kitchen. The cup trembled in the landlady's hand now, and her eyes widened considerably as Tony and Peter made their way into the room.

"Why are you in Mr. Beck's _apartment?_" she cried, her voice wobbling so much that Peter felt a wave of guilt wash over him. The lady looked hardly strong enough to hold the mug of coffee, let alone bear the notion of five strangers standing in her old resident's home.

"This is police business, ma'am," Steve said, and he showed the landlady his badge. "We were investigating the circumstances surrounding Mr. Beck's death, but we found some evidence that might prove he could be responsible for some of the accidents happening around the city."

"The accidents?" The landlady's eyebrows furrowed together. Then, her eyes focused on Tony. She pointed a trembling finger and asked, "Aren't you that rocket man?" She held up the newspapers. "You created quite the fuss a little while ago."

Peter saw Tony's jaws stiffen, but before he could respond, Steve said quickly, "That's part of what we've found out, ma'am. It seems that Mr. Beck might have had something to do with the recent damage done to the working sector."

The landlady turned her eyes swiftly towards Steve. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice so accusatory that even Steve looked a little uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat, Steve only asked, "Was there anything unusual that Mr. Beck ever did? Any late night meetings or strange requests or strange people coming to meet him here?"

"Not that I can think of," the landlady sniffed. "Mr. Beck was a pleasant young man. Always polite." She regarded Tony with such suspicion that Peter resisted the urge to step in front of him. Instead, Peter only stared straight back at the landlady, though she didn't seem to pay attention to him.

"Anything at all?" Natasha asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

The landlady focused on Natasha. "He was polite," she repeated. "But he'd…" She hesitated.

"Yes?" Natasha prodded.

The landlady waved the stack of letters around. "He once asked if he could use the bedroom directly this one," she replied. "There's no one living there, see, and he told me that he wanted to make some adjustments because he had an idea to make the ceiling structure stronger."

"That doesn't make any sense," Tony muttered under his breath.

"Oh, I don't know," the landlady said, waving the letters again. "He seemed rather smart. Worked at Stark Industries, you know, before the whole…mess."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "What—"

"What's in your hand?" Steve asked, cutting Tony off with a pointed look.

The landlady looked down at the envelopes. "These?" she asked, and her face softened. "Just some letters addressed to Mr. Beck from his good friends. He had company from all over, you know, always a constant stream of letters. I sometimes pick up the mail for him, and he lets me clean about his apartment on occasion."

Natasha furrowed her brow. "But not his bedroom?" she asked.

The landlady shook her head. "Mr. Beck liked some privacy," she said. "Wouldn't let me touch a thing in his bedroom, even when I told him it was a mess. Wouldn't even let me sweep the rug!"

"How dreadful," Tony deadpanned. "Imagine the dust."

The landlady shot Tony a scathing look, but again, Steve said quickly, "Would you mind giving us those letters?"

The landlady looked at Steve. "Why would I do that?"

"It's just for the investigation," Steve replied. "If you don't think Mr. Beck was capable of doing any harm, then those letters might be a clue as to why he died the way he did." He nodded down at the letters and extended a hand. "May we?'

The landlady pressed her lips together. Then, placing the letters in Steve's hand, she said, "Mark my words, Mr. Beck had nothing to do with this. I'm certain." Her eyes swept over the group and then she added, "Now please get out."

* * *

"'Imagine the dust'," Steve said as soon as they were back in the carriage. "Really, Tony?"

Peter startled. This was probably one of the first times he had ever heard Steve call Tony by his first name—moreso, this was the first time Peter had seen Steve express any actual annoyance ever. Peter looked over at Tony, who only rolled his eyes.

"He's just grumpy because she didn't approve of Stark Industries," Natasha said. "Along with the rest of the city." When Tony whipped his head to glare at her, Natasha held firm. "But you won't have to worry about that, because we're going to change everyone's minds. _But_," she added, "I don't think it was helpful when you decided to get snappy, either."

"You're making me sound like a child," Tony grumbled.

"Because you obviously aren't," Natasha said loftily. She turned to Peter. "Thoughts?"

Peter blinked. "I don't think Mr. Stark's a child," he said.

Natasha's lips twitched. "Not about that," she said, "I meant about the investigation. Any more thoughts you'd like to share?" She looked so expectant that Peter couldn't help but wonder exactly what kind of things Natasha did outside of this case. She wasn't a member of the police, for sure—judging by the way she didn't seem to care for the law as much as Steve did, and she definitely didn't work for Tony, judging by how she addressed him.

"Not really," Peter said, remembering that Natasha was still waiting for an answer. The tips of his ears burned as Natasha held her gaze on him. "I mean," he tried again, "I guess something still seems a little strange."

"Like?" Natasha prodded.

Peter swallowed. "Like this came too easy," he said. He looked down at the letters in Steve's hands. "If Mr. Beck was responsible for…" His stomach went cold at how Quentin had smiled at him when they first met. How he had smiled when they were at the gala. How Quentin had been so gentle. Quiet and kind, compared to the rest of the loud, sharp angles of Stark Industries.

Peter had smiled back. He had thought that Quentin was on his side.

And to think, behind that smile, there had been something darker—that didn't make sense.

"How could Mr. Beck have done that?" Peter asked. He was aware of how small his voice was—how tinny it sounded in the carriage. "I just…" He shook his head. "Don't you guys think this was too easy? How we found everything? Like it was waiting for us?"

"So what are you saying?" Steve asked, shuffling the letters in his hands. "You think there's more to the story?"

"I just…" Peter's voice drifted. He looked up at Natasha, whose gaze had almost softened. He looked away. "I feel like there's something else," he finished lamely.

For a moment, all Peter could hear was the rumble of the carriage running over the cobblestones.

And then Tony said, "You don't think he did it."

Peter whipped his head around to Tony.

And Tony looked back at him.

Peter couldn't read Tony's face.

"The evidence was right there in the apartment," Steve said gently. "I think that's some pretty foolproof casing right there."

"But Peter clearly thinks differently," Tony said. Peter wished he knew what Tony was thinking.

"Mr. Stark?"

"And what do you think?" It was Natasha this time, lifting her chin slightly towards Tony. In defiance or in question, Peter couldn't tell.

"I think…" Tony paused. Peter couldn't remember if there had ever been a time he had seen Tony pause with his words before. Or if he had ever seen Tony speak so carefully. Everything that came out of Tony's mouth had always felt bright, sharp, shining like a light in the dead of night. Unapologetic. Hearing Tony pause was like seeing a light blooming instead of firing. "I think the kid has a point. Look at the story deeper."

Something like relief lifted in Peter's chest—something _like _relief because Peter's head was still trying to wrap around how Tony's voice could come out so quietly.

And apparently, Peter wasn't the only one thinking that, because Natasha said, "I didn't think you were capable of looking deeply."

"Careful, Romanoff," Tony said, and Natasha only smiled.

"Alright, then, boys," Natasha said as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Stark residence. "Let's get working."

* * *

"Letters," Pepper said, setting down the small stack of envelopes, "and more letters." She slammed another thick stack of envelopes. She looked up from the dining table. "I looked through the mail leftover in Mr. Beck's old mailbox." She sat down at the table. "And there's something interesting—you said that Mr. Beck was getting employers asking for him to work, yes?"

"That's what he claimed," Peter said, looking over at Tony.

"Well," Pepper said, shuffling some of the envelopes, "that's not what I found. Of all the letters I've personally been able to get through, there's no such employer reaching out." She slammed her hands down on the envelopes and pushed them forward. "But we've got our work cut out for us. There's still plenty of exchanges going on here."

Natasha reached over for an envelope and slit it open. "Right, then," she said, ruffling open the letter, "get reading."

Peter reached over for a letter and looked down. His eyes found nothing but scribble handwriting about a kettle. ("Firstly, boiling water for tea is one of my favorite past-times. Relaxing, calming, and overall soothing in nature, the teakettle is a comfort to all who seek its temperament. Oliver's sells quite good teakettles, although they are a tad too expensive for my own liking. Secondly…") He flicked it over to the side and picked up another letter. He managed to decipher about half of the letter before realizing that this one was about teacups. Peter pushed that letter aside too, feeling both a mixture of relief and annoyance.

He didn't want the person responsible for exploding his home to be Quentin.

He wanted that map in Quentin's apartment to be something planted—something left there by the people who killed him and actually were responsible for the explosion.

Because Quentin had been kind. And Quentin had bothered to talk to him.

"Are you reading the letter, or are you trying to rip it apart?"

Peter jerked his head up to find Tony watching him from across the table. Tony, too, had amassed a small pile of letters beside him, most of which Peter assumed were probably discarded after not finding anything. Tony set a letter down on the table and nodded at Peter's hands. "Easy there—still evidence."

Peter looked down at his own hands and realized that his knuckles had gone white from clutching the paper too hard. "Sorry," Peter said, and he set the paper down gingerly. "I didn't think—"

"It's fine," Tony said. He fiddled with the letter. "You should get some rest. You've done enough today."

Peter swallowed. He glanced at Natasha, Steve, and Pepper sitting at the other end of the table. Steve looked as though he was deliberately trying to keep himself from lifting his head, while Pepper only quietly acted as though nothing was going on. Natasha, on the other hand, flicked her eyes curiously up at Peter and Tony before flicking them back down.

Peter turned back towards Tony. "No one else is resting," Peter replied, lowering his voice to the best of his ability, but he knew there was no point—everyone could hear him. "It wouldn't be fair if I did."

Tony kept fiddling with the paper. Then, suddenly, he asked, "How are you feeling?"

Peter stared. "Feeling…?" he repeated.

"I never got to ask you about how you felt after Mr. Beck's death," Tony replied, and there was something tight in his voice, which made Peter wonder if Tony wanted to say those words at all. "And I know he was…pleasant. To you."

Peter stared at Tony's hands. "But."

"But you need to know that he's not—Peter, look at me."

Peter forced his eyes up at Tony.

Tony looked tired. "There's going to be people who disappoint you. People who give you a nasty surprise." He pushed the letter aside to the discarded pile. "I just want to make sure you'll be prepared if you find something you don't want to find."

Peter swallowed again. "I just…" His voice drifted. "I thought he was a friend."

Something flickered across Tony's face—for a moment, Peter thought it might have been hurt, but before Peter could piece the emotion together, Tony's face had settled back into a mask of calm. "That's understandable," Tony said, and he picked up another letter. Peter looked down at his own pile of letters. He picked one out of the pile and slid it towards himself.

Somewhere off to the side, Peter heard Steve cough.

"Why exactly…did you fire him?" Peter asked.

Tony paused, his hands just barely stopping over the letter he had picked up. "He wasn't stable," he said at last, looking up from the table. "I told you there were some people who didn't agree with the new direction Stark Industries was planning to go down." When Peter didn't say anything, Tony continued, "Mr. Beck made his personal opinions about Stark Industries known. He was…rather adamant about making sure where the things we built would go."

Peter's heart sank. "I didn't think that he would—"

"Mr. Beck is good with people," Tony said matter-of-factly. "People like him. Charming. Warm." He flicked away a letter. "But when he doesn't get what he wants, like most people, he gets angry." Tony's face darkened. "But unlike most people, when he gets angry, he becomes very difficult."

Peter fingered a corner of a letter. "You didn't want me to like him," Peter said quietly. "When I first met him."

For a moment, Tony didn't speak. Peter was starting to wonder if he had said something wrong, but then, abruptly, as though the words were being yanked out of him, Tony said, "I didn't want you to get hurt."

Peter lifted his head.

Tony didn't look away this time.

"You're a good kid," Tony said slowly. Almost awkwardly, but not insincerely. "You deserve to meet people who are better."

Peter's chest warmed. "Mr. Stark?"

Tony cleared his throat. "Just keep that in mind," he said. "Especially when you don't feel like you fit. Understood?"

Peter smiled. He bobbed his head up and down into what felt like a nod, and Tony nodded back.

And then Pepper said, "I think I figured it out."

"I was going to say that I think I figured it out, too," Natasha said slowly.

When Peter turned towards the other end of the table, Natasha's eyes were narrowed in on the space between Peter and Tony, while Pepper was holding up two letters. For some reason, Peter had the feeling Pepper and Natasha weren't thinking about the same thing.

"Really?" Pepper asked, looking down at Natasha. "Have you figured out the code, too?"

Natasha shifted her gaze over at Pepper. "Code?" she repeated, and for the first time ever, Peter recognized what must have been bewilderment on the woman's face.

"Yes, the code," Pepper said, exasperated. She flung the letter down. "Has anyone else only found letters about kitchenware? Furniture? Mundane things?"

"I never thought I'd see the day Ms. Potts would say that furniture was mundane," Tony said, pushing himself away from the table. "So there must be something worth looking at."

Ignoring the remark, Pepper continued, "They're all code for which sites will be targeted first." She pressed the letter against the table, tapping a finger over the paper. "Look—if you just saw the letters of each of the first sentences going down, they spell out the order."

Peter's stomach pitched forward. "Wait a minute," he said, and he picked up the letter he had been examining. "Like this one?" he asked, pushing forward the letter about the kettle.

"The first sentence starts with a F," Tony said, furrowing his brow. He picked up his head and said, "F-R-O?"

"No, look," Natasha said, shifting the letter her way. "Beck starts the sentence with 'firstly'." She traced her finger down the letter and jabbed at another word. "And 'secondly'." She turned to Pepper. "Is this what you're talking about? That you think these might be related to which places were going to be targeted next?"

Pepper nodded. She held up her own letter. "Beck uses the same words 'firstly' and 'secondly' and 'thirdly', only the following sentences are different." She turned the letter over and read aloud, "Firstly, bringing dirty dishes to my landlady has been a difficult task. Regal as she is, my landlady insists that every single spot be clean. Obviously, I try my hardest in cleaning those dishes, but I must admit that I find her attitude frustrating at times." She lifted her head. "Do you see? F-R-O again."

"But I don't understand," Steve said, rolling out the map from Quentin's apartment. "There's no location here marked starting with F."

Peter scanned the map. Sure enough, there weren't any marked locations starting with that particular letter. He found Central Park, Trinity Church, Brooklyn Bridge…

"Wait," Peter said, picking up his letter. "The letters aren't F-R-O." He took Pepper's letter and held it up against his letter. "The sentences start with 'firstly', and then the next letter is a 'b'." He lifted his head up at the other adults. "Boiling," he said. "Bringing."

"So the letters are 'B-R-O'," Tony said. He looked down at the map and stabbed a finger at one of the marked areas. "Brooklyn Bridge. That was where Beck was headed for next."

"The people who killed him might be there," Steve said. "Or, if we think they might be trying to take over whatever Beck was doing, they might be scoping out the place."

"Do you really think they'd do that?" Pepper asked. "Wouldn't the people who killed Beck want to run out of here before they got caught?"

"I don't think they were worried about getting caught," Natasha murmured. When everyone looked at her, she shrugged. "Think about it. Mr. Beck died in front of every single wealthy person in New York City. If his death was meant to be private—if people wanted to hide themselves after killing a man—they wouldn't have done it in front of you lot, whom the killers are probably well aware of how you could all hire enough police to take down any threat. No," Natasha said, standing up, "the killers are trying to send a message." She glanced over at Tony. "And I think we all know who they're expecting to receive the message."

Peter looked up at Tony.

Tony pressed his lips together into a line. "Alright," he said. He took a step back away from the table. "So we meet the people. Brooklyn Bridge, right?"

"Mr. Stark—" Peter started, but Steve was the one who spoke first.

"You confronting them won't help anything," Steve said. "That's what they want." He nodded down at the map. "I'll go down there. Secure the area."

"And you can do that because…"

Steve smiled grimly. "Because it's my job," he said. He nodded down at the map again. "We can't let any more people die. There needs to be a line of defense."

"If you think I'm going to sit here and wait—"

"But those people have to have access to Stark Industries weapons, right?" Peter interrupted before Tony could finish. When Tony turned to look at him, Peter gestured at the map. "If those people want to blow up Brooklyn Bridge, then they need access to your rockets first. And I don't think those people could carry out rockets on their own. They'd have to break in…again." He looked over at Steve. "Shouldn't we be going there first?"

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but this time, Tony was the one to interrupt. "What do you mean by 'we'?" he asked. "You're staying here."

"No, I'm not," Peter said, feeling desperation rise in his chest. "I told you this morning, Mr. Stark—I'm not going to back down now."

"This isn't just going into a dead man's house, Peter," Tony argued, leaning against the table. "Are you listening to me? There could be _actual _bad people waiting for us—"

"So the kid will come with me," Steve said.

"That's hardly any better," Pepper said.

"Absolutely not," Tony said.

"I think that's a good idea." Natasha.

This time, everyone looked at Natasha. Sighing, Natasha said, "Listen, it's clear that we need to cover two locations. And we can't all go to these places together one at a time—that'll take too long. We need to secure Stark Industries, and we need to secure Brooklyn Bridge. So Tony and I will go to Stark Industries, and Steve and Peter will go to Brooklyn Bridge. Tony's got more secure access to SI, and Steve won't be questioned if he called a squad over to the bridge. So there we go." She nodded at Peter. "And the kid will be in a public setting, surrounded by policemen. He'll be safe as can be."

"You don't know that," Tony said sharply. "The police don't always save people on time."

At that, Peter heard Steve take in a sharp breath. "Tony, I told you—"

"_No_," Tony said, jabbing a finger at Steve. "_You _listen to _me_. This isn't just a robbery gone bad, Rogers. This is a whole explosion that might happen in the next few hours. Not just two people are going to get hurt—_everyone _could get hurt, and you will try to help _everyone_." Tony was breathing hard, but his eyes were darker and steadier than ever—filled with a coldness that Peter hadn't ever seen before. "And you won't be able to help everyone," Tony said, his voice suddenly soft. "Because no one can. And someone—_someone_—is going to slip through the cracks."

"Tony—" Pepper, holding onto Tony's arm, but he brushed her hand away. "I don't need that happening again," Tony said, his gaze still locked on Steve. "My parents were enough."

The room went silent—a deadly kind of silence, the kind that made Peter wonder if the glass would crack from the pressure.

Then, Steve said quietly, "Tony…" His voice was rough. "You know I tried. We all did."

"Trying wasn't enough."

There was a sharp crack, and Peter whipped up his head to find Tony rubbing his cheek. Natasha was lowering her hand, her expression unruffled. Pepper, on the other hand, had opened her mouth and was just about to say something when Natasha said coolly, "There are people whose lives are at stake right now, and arguing about the past isn't going to help anyone." She turned to Tony. "I'm sorry about what happened to your parents, Tony—_I'm sorry_." And for a moment, Natasha's voice cracked, but when she turned back around, Peter didn't find any tears in her eyes. "And Steve, I know you feel guilty about that all the time. But you—_both of you_—" She shook her head wearily. "You two need to find a time to talk about this. Another time. Because right now…" She picked up the map. "Right now, we've got people who we can actually save."

Natasha took a deep breath. "Now," she said curtly. "As I was saying, Tony and I are going to Stark Industries. Steve, Peter, you two are going to Brooklyn Bridge." She looked over at Tony, and then back at Peter, and then back to Tony. "And Steve will make sure Peter stays out of harm's way." She looked at Peter in the eye. "Right?"

Peter nodded quickly.

"Good." Natasha looked between Steve and Tony. "And after this, I swear to God, I'm going to make you two talk to each other because you two are both going to hate yourselves if you keep holding onto this grudge. Got it?"

When neither men would speak, Natasha repeated, "_Got it?_"

There were mumbled responses which, under different circumstances, would have been funny, but Peter couldn't bring himself to laugh at all.

* * *

"Hey, kid."

Peter lifted his head from the floor. He had just put on a jacket and had been contemplating changing his shoes—because apparently, Tony had insisted on getting him more pairs of shoes—when Tony himself appeared in the doorway.

"Mr. Stark," Peter said. He adjusted his jacket. "I was just about to come down. Is Captain Rogers still waiting?"

"He is," Tony replied. He cleared his throat. "That wasn't why I came up here."

"Oh," Peter said. He adjusted his jacket sleeves again. He didn't know what to say, not after the commotion in the dining room. Tony's words—_my parents were enough_—still rang around and around in Peter's head, and suddenly, the stiffness in the way Tony and Steve acted around each other made more sense.

"Ask."

Peter looked up. "What?" he asked, his voice coming out higher than he expected.

Tony rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I know you're wondering. So ask."

Peter bit down on his bottom lip. "I don't think I want to, Mr. Stark."

"It's fair for you to be curious."

Peter shook his head. "Whatever is going on between you and Captain Rogers isn't my business," he said quietly.

Tony dropped his hand from his eyes. "I see," he said slowly.

"Was that…why you came up here?" Peter asked.

"No," Tony replied quickly. "No." He lifted something up in his hand, and that was when Peter noticed what looked like a mask—no, a helmet, similar to the one of Tony's metallic suit—resting in his palm. "I was going to give this to you later," Tony said, walking forward. "Maybe when the rest of your suit was done, but it seems like the events of today has sped up that process." He rested the helmet in Peter's hands.

Peter took it, feeling the cool metal under his palms. He looked down, balking at the shining ride helmet, lined with black—

"Webs?" Peter asked, looking up.

Tony gave Peter what was almost a smile. "Hope you don't mind that I got attached to the spider nickname that Nat gave you," he said. He nodded down at the helmet. "I'd personally feel better if I knew you were doing your spider-thing with some protection, at the very least."

A lump rose in Peter's throat. "Mr. Stark—" he started, but Tony just tapped a hand down on the helmet.

"Just…" Tony sighed, but it sounded more like a surrender. "Stay safe. I don't want to come back and find out that something…" His voice trembled, and Peter looked up at Tony.

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony swallowed. He closed his eyes briefly, opened them. "You told me you were fast," he said. He tapped his hand against the helmet. "So just be a little faster today."

Peter nodded. "I'll see you later, Mr. Stark," Peter said. That was all he could say.

Tony nodded back. "You better," he said. "Don't pick any pockets on the way." And Peter had the feeling that was all Tony could say.

But Peter laughed anyways.

* * *

**A/N: **My workload has been highkey been getting to me, but I ate some yummy oatmeal and also decided to post this, so yay for little wins?

As always, comments/constructive criticism is always welcome!


	15. FIFTEEN

**FIFTEEN. **

"Ready to go?" Natasha asked as Tony came down to the foyer.

"Do you want the honest answer or the optimistic answer?" Tony asked, swinging on his coat.

Natasha gave Tony a crooked smile. "I want the Tony Stark answer."

"Good, because I never was an optimistic person, anyways," Tony said. Buttoning up his coat, he replied in a low voice, "I don't want to know what we're going to find."

Natasha pressed her lips together. "I wouldn't expect you to." She lifted a hand over Tony's face, examining what Tony knew was probably the red bloom over his cheek from where Natasha slapped him. "Sorry about that, by the way," Natasha said, her hand still against Tony's face. "But you know I had to do it."

"Surprised you didn't do it sooner," Tony replied. And because he couldn't help himself, he added, "You can't stand to see Rogers guilty, anyways." He had meant the comment as a half-joke, but Natasha didn't laugh.

"And I can't stand to see you hurting," Natasha said quietly. She lowered her hand from Tony's face and rested it on his hand. She gave it a quick squeeze, adding, "You were friends. And you miss him, even if you're not willing to admit it." Natasha smiled. "Am I right?"

Tony cleared his throat roughly. "You don't need me to answer that, Romanoff," he replied.

Natasha let out a small laugh. "Naturally," she replied.

Someone cleared a throat behind them, and Tony turned around to find Pepper standing by the stairwell. Only to Tony's surprise, Pepper was wearing a coat, too, as though she was—

"Coming with us?" Natasha asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Of course," Pepper said stiffly. "I was the one who pointed out the code, after all. Surely, that warrants my own inclusion in the investigation. About time," she added.

"True," Natasha agreed. She dropped her hand from Tony's, and Tony couldn't help but notice Pepper's eyes watching the small movement. "Glad that we'll have the extra company."

There was an odd silence, and clearing her throat, Natasha added, "I suppose I'll call the carriage." With that, she left the foyer so that it was just Tony and Pepper alone together.

"I must say," Tony said as Pepper walked towards him, "I didn't expect you to come along."

"Well, I'm used to being stuck in the house all day," Pepper replied. "And someone has to make sure you stay out of trouble." Her words were short, clipped, but before Tony could ask what he had done wrong this time, Natasha opened the door.

"Carriage's here," she said, jerking her head outside. "No time to waste."

* * *

The ride towards Stark Industries was a quiet one. Pepper didn't seem to be in a talkative mood, and any sign of amusement had long since drifted from Natasha's face—the face she wore now was one of total concentration, the kind that Tony had only seen her wear before diving headlong into a case.

When the carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of Stark Industries, Tony was almost relieved just because he could get out of the quiet vehicle. But as cold air rushed to greet him, Tony regarded the Stark Industries building with a pitching sensation in his stomach. To think that there could be people in there right now, readying a rocket to blow up Brooklyn Bridge…

"We'll get through this," Natasha said quietly from beside Tony.

Tony turned towards her. "_You'll _get through this," Natasha added. She reached over and squeezed his arm. "I'm going to scout out the lower levels—you go to the top, keep a lookout."

"Won't that be dangerous for you?" Pepper asked, stepping out of the carriage. "You going by yourself?"

"Your concern is sweet, Ms. Potts," Natasha said with a pleasant smile, "but I assure you, I'll be fine." She turned back to Tony. "Just stay out of trouble." With another squeeze, she darted into the building.

Tony turned towards Pepper. "Shall we?" he asked, extending an arm, but Pepper didn't take it. Tony let his arm drop against his side.

"Natasha is a brave woman," Pepper said in the same stiff, clipped voice she used earlier. "For going in by herself."

"That's her job most of the time," Tony replied. "She loves the thrill."

"I can tell," Pepper only murmured.

* * *

Floor by floor, Tony and Pepper made their way around the offices. Each floor was dark, and each floor, they found no one and nothing except for half-cluttered desks. And with each floor, Tony felt a growing sense of unease. He half-expected someone to jump out at him now, either behind a desk or through the window or even through the ceiling. But each time, no one came.

"Do you think Natasha found anyone downstairs?" Pepper asked quietly as they went up to another floor.

"If she did, then we'll find out," Tony replied.

"Mm," Pepper hummed. The elevator doors opened, and she said, "There might be a chance we won't find anyone up here at all."

"Maybe," Tony replied, walking through the doors, "but there could also be a look-out. I don't want to think about what would happen if the look-out was poking around here." He kept his eyes trained ahead to the hallway before him. Office doors passed by him, all of which opened.

"No one here," Pepper murmured eventually. "So maybe there isn't a lookout here at all."

"We still have one more place to check," Tony said, and he pushed open a door at the end of the hallway—only to realize that they weren't in an office or a room, but rather in a large, open space. A glass dome enclosed around Tony and Pepper, and all Tony could see for miles and miles were the glowing lights and buildings of New York City.

"An observatory," Pepper mused. "This would be a good place for someone to hide out." She looked around the room—not that there was much to look around, the entire place was empty. "It seems like there's no one here."

As she turned around to go, Tony called, "Why are you leaving so soon?"

Pepper turned back around. "There's no one here," she said, lifting her shoulders. "There's no point in us staying."

And Tony wasn't sure what made him say the next words, but he said, "You never know. At least here, we've got a good view." He gestured out the glass. Night had slowly fallen over the city, and the sky was now a deep indigo, hinted only barely by the faintest shades of pink and purple. If Tony squinted, he could even see a star glimmering in the distance. "There's no one here," he added. "I think that's at least some cause for celebration."

"And we do that by looking at the view?" Pepper asked skeptically.

Tony dropped his hand. "_I _think it's a nice view," he said, defensive.

Tony couldn't read Pepper's expression.

Then, with a sigh, she walked forward. "Alright," she said, standing next to Tony. "Let's look at this beautiful view." She clasped her hands together, staring dutifully out the glass dome.

Tony felt a smile twitch at the corner of his lips, but he dared not let that show to Pepper. "It _is _nice, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "I hardly find the time to appreciate a view like this. Even when I'm working here." He flicked his eyes over to Pepper. "How about you?"

Pepper let out a short laugh. "I hardly find time, either," she replied. "Being your assistant takes up the majority of my time, as it so seems." She cleared her throat. "I'm glad you appreciate the view, though, Mr. Stark. Perhaps Ms. Romanoff will appreciate the view up here as well."

Tony furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure if Natasha would have the time," he said.

"You could always ask her," Pepper said, and Tony turned to look at the woman fully. Her voice had gone tighter and tighter in the last few moments, and now, looking at Pepper's still face, he asked, "Is there something that you've been meaning to tell me, Ms. Potts?"

"Not at all, Mr. Stark," Pepper replied. "Just making a suggestion."

Tony frowned. "A suggestion about…"

"Ms. Romanoff," Pepper said shortly. She cleared her throat. "It appears that you two are rather fond of each other, and I would think that you would want to make your intentions known. Ms. Romanoff does not strike me as a woman willing to wait—"

Tony stared. "Did you just say _intentions_?" he asked dubiously. When Pepper didn't respond, he couldn't help but smile. "Ms. Potts," he said slowly, "did you mean to think that I planned to _marry _Natasha?"

"You two seem comfortable with each other," was Pepper's only reply. "And she has been much more helpful in the last few weeks. I am not blind, Mr. Stark."

"Natasha and I are _friends_," Tony said, and he didn't know whether to laugh out of amusement or exasperation at Pepper's still-neutral expression. "She doesn't care for me in that way. Good friends, but not at all the romantic partners that you imagine us to potentially be." He searched Pepper's face, at the way her eyes softened. "Was that why you were upset?"

"I wasn't upset," Pepper said, but all the tightness in her voice had disappeared.

"You were," Tony pointed out. "Look—all the fight has gone out of your face."

Pepper shifted her gaze back out the dome. "I would rather you not make those kinds of observations about my face," she said, but Tony couldn't help notice the light pink that had risen in her cheeks. And it certainly wasn't because of the fading sunlight, either.

Tony smiled out the glass. "Are you relieved, then?" he asked.

"_Mr. Stark_—"

"I only joke," Tony said quickly, but when he looked over at Pepper, he found that she was smiling to herself, her teeth just gently biting down on her bottom lip from having the smile spread any further. Tony let his gaze linger on her for a moment, taking in the light blush that still graced Pepper's cheeks, the little smile, the clear focus on the view outside.

And for a wild, wild moment, Tony imagined himself taking one of Pepper's clasped hands and lifting it to his lips, planting a gentle cheek on her knuckles. And for a wild, wild moment, Tony's hand twitched, and then Pepper turned to look at him.

"Pepper," Tony said. He heard her name come out of his lips, and it felt so natural that he said it again. "Pepper."

"Yes?" Pepper asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Tony blamed the view. He blamed the lights for making him think through the possibility of reaching over for Pepper's hand, for thinking the words _thank you for staying by my side_. He blamed the whole ridiculous situation that brought them up to the observatory, right under the final gasps of sunlight, which compelled him to think of the possibility of pressing his lips against hers. He blamed every little second leading up to this moment.

But looking at Pepper's sea-colored eyes, Tony decided that there were worse things.

"Pepper," Tony said, taking in a shaky breath. "I wanted to tell you that—"

But before Tony could say anything else, the entire building rumbled beneath Tony's feet.

Pepper cried out, catching Tony as he pitched forward. "What was that?" she gasped, wide-eyed, and for a moment, Tony thought that the building was collapsing, but then he caught sight of a searing, bright flash pierce the sky. He turned his gaze out the glass and felt hot and cold all over at once.

In the distance, he could see Brooklyn Bridge.

And flying right towards Brooklyn Bridge was a released rocket.

"Tony…" Pepper whispered, reaching for Tony's hand. "That—"

"We need to go," Tony replied. He looked at Pepper, stricken. "We need to go right now."

* * *

**A/N: **_A shorter chapter, but necessary for reasons ya'll find out later. ;) _

_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always highly appreciated!_


	16. SIXTEEN

**SIXTEEN. **

Peter stared down at the helmet in his hands. The eyes of the helmet were made out of a white metal, and when Peter had put it on, he had been (surprisingly) able to see things clearly—even more clearly than Peter normally would without the helmet. Peter placed a hand over the eyes now, feeling the cool surface break through his warm palm. Tony's expression was still seared into the back of Peter's mind—how Tony had looked at him as though looking alone could keep Peter safe.

"Nice helmet."

Peter looked up in time to see Steve hoisting himself into the carriage. He placed both hands over the eyes and said, "Thank you."

"Tony's work?" Steve asked, nodding down at the helmet.

Peter nodded. He wasn't sure what else to say.

Thankfully, he didn't have to say anything at all, because then the carriage jolted forward. As the carriage rolled past buildings, Steve said, "So—Brooklyn Bridge." He looked at Peter. "Are you nervous?"

"Only a little," Peter replied.

"Well, I'm nervous," Steve said, leaning back against his seat. "I grew up in Brooklyn, you know."

Peter blinked. "You did?" he asked.

A corner of Steve's mouth lifted into a smile. "If you can believe it," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Scrappy kid in Brooklyn who used a trash lid to defend himself against bullies."

Peter regarded Steve's broad shoulders and tried to imagine the police captain as a short, small child. He couldn't imagine it. "Really?"

Steve let out a laugh. "Believe me," he replied. "I've still got some of the scars to prove it." He glanced out the window. "Growing up is hard," he said, more thoughtfully than anything else. "Everyone's always out to try to prove themselves." He shifted his gaze over at Peter. "Do you know what I mean?"

Peter turned the helmet over in his hands. Like Tony did, he couldn't help but realize. "Maybe," he replied.

Some silence passed before Peter asked, "Then how did you get into the police force?"

"Told you I was scrappy," Steve replied. "That's also another way of saying that I was stupid. And stubborn. A mixture of both." He shifted his position in the seat. Stretched a little, almost as though the carriage wasn't enough to hold his frame. Again, Peter couldn't imagine Steve ever being a different size than he was now.

"When I first applied to join, I got rejected—too small, too weak." Steve lifted his shoulders. "Some friends of mine knew how much I wanted to join, so they helped me. Made sure that I would at least hold longer than five seconds in a fight." Another laugh left his lips. "There were lots of lessons."

"And then you got in?" Peter asked.

Steve shook his head. "Second time I applied, I was healthy enough—but there was a, ah, disagreement over the kind of people who should be allowed in the force."

Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"

Steve smiled grimly. "My grandparents immigrated here from Ireland," he said. "The police captain at the time wasn't ready to let someone like me into the force, even though I'm an American first." He cleared his throat. "Luckily, there was a friend of the police at the station that day—and he convinced the force to take me in." Steve's eyes softened. "He was a good man. Smart man, too. Owned a whole company."

Peter thought about how Tony had stared at Steve with such hurt. And suddenly, a memory re-surfaced in Peter's mind—a memory of himself standing in Tony's office. _"The captain was everything my good old father envisioned a hero to be—brave, patriotic, noble, all the ridiculous great things. I'm fairly sure my father liked this captain more than he liked me."_

And then Peter thought of the anguish in Tony's face just earlier that day. _"My parents were enough." _

Peter could feel Steve's eyes on him, feel his expectancy weighing down on him.

"Mr. Stark's father," Peter said slowly. "You were the captain Mr. Stark's father liked so much."

"We were something like friends," Steve replied. "And he helped me."

"Then was that how you met Mr. Stark?" Peter asked.

"Oddly enough, no," Steve replied, his voice surprisingly level. "We met because I had to control a party that went out of control. There was a broken window involved."

Peter blinked. He imagined Steve standing in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by drunk people as Tony stood at the stairwell. The image was both ridiculous and strangely normal, and Peter couldn't help but smile. He tried biting the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from blossoming any further, but too late, Steve had seen it and had started smiling, too.

"Not the best introduction," Steve said, "but I helped clean up the mess better than Tony expected. We wound up becoming…acquaintances after that." But then the smile on Steve's face faded, like the rays of sunlight being cast behind a cloud. "I'm afraid things are a little different now."

Peter tightened his grip on the helmet. A part of him desperately wanted to ask what exactly had changed the relationship—but he thought of Tony's hurt words again ("my parents were enough" and "the police don't always save people"), and he saw the pained expression Steve was wearing now, and Peter decided to keep his questions inside.

* * *

When the carriage rolled to a stop at Brooklyn Bridge, Peter found that there were already policemen waiting. Steve turned to Peter. "You can wait in here," he said.

Peter lifted his chin. "No," he replied. "I'm coming out, too."

Steve stared at him for a moment. "Then stay with me."

Peter nodded and with that, he followed Steve out the carriage.

Some of the policemen turned and nodded at Steve, while others let their gazes linger on Peter. Peter, in response, gripped the helmet tighter in his hands and kept close to Steve's side. Finally, as Steve and Peter reached an edge of the bridge, two policemen parted from their groups and walked over.

"Bucky, Sam," Steve said, nodding to the two men who made their way towards the edge of the bridge. "Glad you two at least came."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," one of the men—Bucky—said, flashing a grin at Steve. He looked down at Peter. "And who do we have here?"

"Peter," Peter replied. He cleared his throat and made his voice louder. "Peter Parker."

"Well, Peter Parker," the other man—Sam—said, extending a hand, "nice to meet ya." As Peter tentatively shook Sam's hand, he asked, "Aren't you a little too young to be here, though?"

"He's one of Stark's," Steve explained for Peter.

Sam lifted his eyebrows. "And that answers my question?"

"You guys don't have to worry about me," Peter said quickly. He tapped his hand on the helmet. "I'll be fine." He looked over at Steve, silently willing him to say something.

And Steve, holding Peter's look, only said, "He'll stay out of trouble. He's faster than he looks."

Peter turned back to Sam and Bucky, who only shrugged. "So long as the kid doesn't mess around," Bucky said, nodding down at Peter. "This isn't playtime."

"I _know_," Peter said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice, but Bucky only smiled at him.

"Brave kid," he heard Bucky say to Sam as the two men turned to walk away.

Peter puffed out a breath. He heard Steve chuckling behind him, and when he looked up, Steve only said with a smile, "He was just joking around about the playtime part. He knows that Stark wouldn't hire anyone that childish." Before Steve could say anything else, there was a call, and Steve looked down at Peter. "Remember what I said about staying out of trouble though, right?"

"How could I?" Peter asked, trying for a smile. "I'll be right here."

"Good," Steve said. "I'll be right back." And with that, he strode off just across the bridge to talk to an officer. Peter sighed and leaned back against the bridge. He held the helmet up in front of him, and even under the darkening sky, Peter could make out his reflection in the helmet.

Peter looked up at the fixtures of the bridge, then to the sides. There were still some people walking around, though most were being pushed off by policemen. Peter's eyes skipped over a family hurrying away as police pushed them away—a pair of women who were walking side-by-side—a teenage boy with a wad of newspaper under his arm. All of them were walking off the bridge, casting uneasy glances behind them as more and more policemen reached the scene.

Everyone was walking off—except one.

Peter found a man in a dark coat standing at the edge of one side of the bridge. A few policemen had come by to tell him to get off, and he had nodded, but he still hadn't moved. He wasn't facing the water, either, as the other pedestrians had. Rather, the man had his eyes turned towards the growing group of policemen.

He still hadn't made any sign of movement.

A chill ran up Peter's spine. He looked for Steve, maybe to see if Steve would come by to tell the man off, but Steve was still talking to a police officer.

Peter looked back at the man and found, with some alarm, that the man had suddenly started moving—but he wasn't moving as quickly as the other pedestrians had. The man's steps were slow and relaxed, as though this was another normal day.

Peter swallowed, averting his gaze just as the man's head started to turn. He held his breath. Even from this distance, Peter could feel the man's eyes boring into the back of his head. Peter opened his palms, squeezed them shut for what felt like an eternity before he turned back around.

The man, thankfully, had started walking again—that same easy, relaxed stroll.

Peter looked down at his helmet.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

The wind whipped around Peter's jacket, causing the fabric to flap around his waist. That alone should have distracted anyone else, but Peter was used to having to face wind whenever he was climbing up any tall structure.

But climbing up the bridge was a little different.

Because at least when Peter looked down from buildings, he could see the street. And he trusted himself to not be stupid enough to drop down on the concrete. The bricks always seemed to surrender to his grip, and there never seemed to be a moment when Peter thought he would fall.

But climbing the bridge meant climbing steel wire that froze under Peter every time he laid his hands on the surface. That, and when Peter looked down, he found not the streets, but the raging river water beneath him. And when Peter lifted his face, he did not see a roof, but he saw the dark sky that seemed so much colder this close.

Peter swallowed and forced his heart to steady. He needed to focus on that spectator, not anyone else. Not anything else.

Peter tentatively swung his leg around the connective beam of the bridge. He looked back down, away from the river and towards the center of the bridge, where the great towers stood. If he could get there, then he'd feel and literally be more secure.

Peter swallowed again. The spectator hadn't moved from his spot. Peter would have to hurry.

He crept along the beam. A part of him was relieved that he was no longer climbing up wire, but he still couldn't help but shudder at the icy feel of steel against his palms. Cold metal wasn't at all like cold brick—he had known that for a long time, but he had never tried to climb any structure made out of cold metal in the first place.

Peter was halfway up to the towers when movement caught the corner of his eye. He ducked his head down briefly, worried that the spectator had started moving, but instead, he found himself looking down at Steve.

Steve's eyes were wide, his lips already parted in question, but before he could say anything, Peter quickly shook his head and hoped that the captain would understand his meaning. _Quiet. _

Thankfully, Steve did. Instead, Steve just gestured with his arms, his face rigid. _Get down here. _

Peter shook his head. He pointed a finger down the bridge. Steve turned, and when he caught sight of the spectator, he turned back around to Peter. Steve gestured again. _Come down. _

Peter shook his head again. He had the strange feeling that if a policeman were to confront the spectator, there would never be any answers. No, Peter was the one who had to go see if there was anything going on.

Ignoring Steve's continued gestures, Peter hurried up to the tower. He puffed out a breath, glad to be on a more stable surface. But just as Peter was ready to sit down and take a few more deep breaths, the spectator jerked his head up.

Peter's heartbeat stammered, and he pressed himself flat against the top of the tower. His heart hammering in his ears, Peter slowly peeked over the edge of the tower. The spectator's head had lowered only slightly, but even from this distance, Peter could tell that the spectator's attitude had changed.

Had he seen Peter?

The spectator shook his head to himself and then, jerking his head back down, he walked towards the other end of the bridge—away from the police. Away from Peter.

"Just got up here," Peter grumbled, and he went back on the beam. His arm and legs trembled from the cold and from the effort, but he kept going, one inch at a time. The spectator didn't turn his head once as he slowly made his way off the bridge. And by the time he was officially off, Peter found himself leaping to buildings that he could actually walk on, which was a relief.

"Come on," Peter whispered, watching the man walk down the streets. "Where are you going? What are you up to?" He hit the rooftop of another building, curling inwards to cushion the sound of his fall. When he peeked over the rooftop, the man had stopped walking.

Peter sucked in a breath and lowered his head, hoping that the man wouldn't notice Peter's forehead. The man, however, didn't look up. Instead, he lifted a hand to the door of the building he had stopped in front of. Peter watched as he knocked, and then the door swung open.

And just as quickly as the door opened, the man walked in, and the door slammed shut.

Peter puffed out a breath. He slowly stood up, looking down at the windows of the building. The windows all had the curtains drawn, and for a moment, Peter thought he saw a flicker of movement through one of the curtains, but then a wind blew past, and the curtain moved again.

Peter swallowed, disappointed. What had he been expecting? Some dramatic reveal? A hidden lair?

Peter turned back towards Brooklyn Bridge, only then aware of how far he had come. Steve was probably calling together the rest of the police by now. Peter felt a quick stab of guilt at that. All of that worry, and nothing to show for it.

Peter glanced back at the building the man had gone into. None of the curtains moved this time.

Re-adjusting his helmet on his head, Peter made his way back towards the bridge. As he got closer and closer to the bridge, the sillier and sillier his initial assumptions about the man seemed to become. The man must have just been another pedestrian—maybe a slow pedestrian who didn't notice the police and the others walking away, but still just a pedestrian. And Peter had followed him all the way to his home, probably.

Peter could make out the police standing around the bridge now, still guarding and cording off certain sections. When Peter landed on the ground, Steve was already making his way towards him.

"Where _were _you?" Steve asked, and for the first time, Peter heard actual anger in the captain's voice. "What were you _thinking_?"

"I thought…I saw something," Peter said weakly. He took off his helmet, looked at Steve in the eye. The captain's brows were furrowed together, his jaws set. "I'm sorry," Peter said. "I didn't mean to make you worry."

"I told you to stay close," Steve said, rubbing his brow. "Tony—" Steve cut himself off abruptly. He dropped his hand from his brow, regarded Peter warily. "I want you to get back to the carriage," he said. "Stay there. I don't want you running off again."

"But—"

"_Now_," Steve said pointedly.

Peter bowed his head. He started to make his way towards the carriage when he heard a distant rumbling. He paused in his tracks and turned around to Steve, who was staring up at the sky, wearing the look of bewilderment that Peter felt.

Then Peter saw it. A flare of brightness coming straight towards them. Too bright. Too loud. Too fast.

Only Steve moved a second faster before Peter did.

"Everyone, off the bridge!" Steve shouted, and he yanked Peter towards himself just as the center of the bridge collapsed under an explosion of light and debris. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the suspensions of the bridge to crush him, or for the ground to give way beneath him. He heard debris smashing the ground around him, felt the tremble and the shakes as cement and steel tore past.

But when Peter didn't fall to his death or feel anything hit him, he slowly lifted his head—and saw Steve holding a wide shield above their heads.

Peter's eyes widened. "This great, big shield that he refused to give to anyone until he met this perfect golden boy of a police captain," Peter remembered Tony saying to him in the office.

Steve looked back down at Peter. "You good, kid?"

Peter only nodded.

* * *

**A/N: **_Ya girl is two chapters behind on symbolic logic homework and has to write three papers by the end of the semester but this story is giving me a kind of consistency I didn't know I needed. [flashes tired peace sign] We are thriving, friends. _

_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are always well appreciated!_


	17. SEVENTEEN

**SEVENTEEN.**

"We have to go right now," Tony said, and without even waiting for Pepper's response, he turned around and yanked at the door. The image of fire and smoke burned before him, and all Tony could think about was how there were people on that bridge. Steve had told him that he'd try to clear away all the pedestrians, but there were probably still some policemen—Peter. _Peter_.

Tony yanked at the door again. "It's not opening," he said, breathing hard. "Pepper, it's not—"

And then Pepper pushed the door. "Tony," she said, grabbing Tony's sleeve before he could rush off—because he was going to rush off, and he knew it, and he knew Pepper knew it. "Look at me."

"We don't have time—" Tony started, but Pepper pulled at Tony's sleeve again, and he spun around.

"You need to calm down," Pepper said, and her eyes were wide enough to make Tony know that she was scared, too. But her hands were steady—steadier than Tony's were, at least. She lowered her hand from Tony's sleeve and into his hand. Her hand was warm against his. "Steve said that he'd keep Peter safe. We have to believe him."

Tony wanted to argue. A stubborn part of him wanted to insist that Pepper couldn't possibly know—but a louder, stronger part of him just wanted to agree. Peter had to be alive. He had to be. Tony saw the determined look in Peter's eyes as he insisted that he come. The stupid boy with the wide, alert eyes that startled Tony since the first day. The stupid boy who crashed into Tony's world the day he crashed into his office without permission or apology.

"Tony?" Pepper breathed. She lifted a hand to Tony's cheek. "Breathe for me."

Tony parted his lips, and a shaky, trembling breath came rushing out. "He's just a kid," he whispered. "I can't have him die."

"Then he won't," Pepper said firmly. Her hand was still on Tony's cheek, her other hand still wrapped around Tony's hand. Two sources of steady warmth. "We'll get him."

Tony nodded, and they ran out as though the world was ending, because it might just have been.

* * *

Natasha, to Tony's relief, was already waiting outside when Pepper and he ran out of the building. And, for the first time since Tony had ever known her, Natasha wasn't wearing her usual mask of calm. Her lips were pressed tight together into a thin white line, and wrinkles had appeared between her furrowed brows, and she actually let out a small "thank God" when Tony and Pepper emerged, which was how Tony knew that she was actually worried. And unsure, which was a first.

"We're going to get to Brooklyn Bridge," Tony said, already striding towards the carriage. "Now."

But just as Tony reached up to open the carriage door, Natasha yanked his arm back.

"What—"

"_Wait_," Natasha hissed. She turned towards the doors of Stark Industries. "I came out here the _second _I heard the rocket launch out of here. Whoever released the rocket has to still be inside. And he—or—she needs to come out sooner or later."

"You think the person who got the rocket out will come out this way?" Pepper asked. "How do you know that there won't be another exit?"

Natasha nodded at Pepper in grudging respect. "Good on you for thinking that," she said, but narrowing her eyes at the door, Natasha replied, "only the person responsible doesn't know that we're actually here. Assuming this person works for Stark Industries or is familiar with the area, it's more likely that he or she'll come out through here."

"So you can do that," Tony said, reaching up for the carriage door again, "but I'm going to Brooklyn Bridge." But this time, Natasha grabbed the handle for the door first.

"And then what?" she asked. "I don't know who this person is. We'd need to keep the culprit detained."

"You can handle it," Tony said.

"I know I can," Natasha snapped, "but I'm not about to drag this person across the whole of New York." She turned towards the doors again. "Just give it a few seconds."

Almost just as those words left her lips, the doors burst open, and sure enough, a bald man with a pair of spectacles took only one look at Natasha, Tony, and Pepper before letting out a sharp squeal. Natasha didn't even bother running after him first, not as the man started bolting for the side.

Then, still wearing a bored expression, Natasha dove just in time to snag the culprit by the shoulder.

"Told you," Natasha said, wheeling both the man and herself around to Tony.

"I'm not talking!" the man shouted, his voice taut and high-pitched. "You can't make me!"

"Is that a bet?" Natasha asked, her lips stretching into the smile that sent shivers up Tony's spine. She shook the man's shoulder hard and turned to Tony. "We can leave now."

* * *

As the carriage got closer and closer to Brooklyn Bridge, Tony's chest felt tighter and tighter. He eyed the growing cloud of smoke hovering over the bridge that seemed even too dark against the night sky. The smells got worse too. Fire and ash and—

"Oh," Pepper whispered as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of what was left of the bridge. The entire middle section, including the towering structures at the center, had all but crumbled. A large gap separated the beginning section of the bridge to the other. There were people on both ends, but from the end that Tony was on, he could already see men dragging lifeless bodies to the side.

Tony heard Pepper and Natasha say something, but he couldn't make out their exact words as he pushed open the carriage door. He didn't feel his feet on the ground. Each step he took seemed to jerk out of him as though he were a puppet being yanked along on a string.

A policeman was hovering over one of his companions, and for a second, Tony thought it was Steve who was on the ground, but no, this man was smaller in frame. Still, Tony made brief eye contact with the fallen policeman, but then the light from the policeman's eyes were already fading, and only a moment later, Tony realized he was making eye contact with a corpse.

Tony jerked his head away. There were so many people scattered all around him, some with blackened flesh, others with a stream of blood trickling down the side of their face. All of them either fighting to sit up or giving up entirely, their faces turned lifelessly up to the night sky.

And with each passing body, Tony had to stop and check, double check that it wasn't Peter or Steve—because even with that idiot golden boy, Tony had to check. _Please_.

Tony kept walking. The gap between the two parts of the bridge grew clearer and clearer, and now Tony could fully see where the bridge had crumbled apart. For a horrifying moment, he wondered if Peter and Steve had fallen into the waters below, and he quickened his pace. _Please_.

"Peter," Tony whispered. His eyes scanned the sides of the bridge faster now, frantically now. "_Peter!_"

And then, amidst the bodies, a small form stirred. Tony's heart plummeted. He saw a head of curls, but the arms were burnt and bleeding. Tony took a shaky step forward. "Peter?" he whispered, but then the small form turned around, and Tony found himself looking into the blue eyes—blue, not brown—of another policeman, this one younger than the others.

But the policeman couldn't have been that much older than Peter. He looked up at Tony, his eyes coming in and out of focus. "I wanna go home," he only said, and his voice was so plaintive that for a moment, Tony thought that the boy—because he really was just a boy—was about to cry.

But the tears never came.

Tony stared down at the boy. He looked so small, so alone, that Tony wanted desperately for someone—anyone—to carry him back into safety. Carry him back to where his family was. But there were too many people injured or dying or dead.

"I'm sorry," Tony said, and he kneeled down next to the boy. With shaking hands—he hadn't realized they were shaking this hard—he closed the boy's eyes. It was a small gesture, but Tony hoped it was enough for the boy to rest.

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony jerked his head up and spun around.

Peter stood behind him. Dirt and ash streaked his face, and his shirt was torn around the sleeves, and his lip had split open, but other than that, he was unharmed. Whole. Peter's eyes were still wide, still awake and alert.

"Peter," Tony breathed, and he surged forward. He didn't even register that he had wrapped his arms around Peter until a moment later, when he heard Peter let out a small "oof" in surprise against his shoulder. For a moment, Tony was worried that Peter would pull away, but then he felt Peter's arms slowly come up to meet Tony's back, and then he felt Peter resting his forehead against Tony's shoulder.

"This is nice," Peter mumbled, and Tony would have started laughing, but all he could do was give a wobbly smile up at the sky.

When he lowered his eyes back to the bridge around him, Steve was walking towards him. Like Peter, Steve's face was streaked with ash and smoke, but he, too, was unharmed. But Tony's eyes went straight to Steve's hands, where he clutched a large, round shield. And Steve stopped short of Tony and Peter, and when he made eye-contact with Tony, the only thing Tony could say was, "You still keep that thing around?"

"Never stopped using it," Steve replied.

Peter lifted his head and turned towards Steve. "Oh, yeah," he said, as though coming out of a daze. He looked between Steve and Tony slowly, the expression on his face so uncertain that under different circumstances, Tony might have started laughing. "Captain Rogers took out the…shield. He covered us both." There was more Peter wanted to say, Tony could tell, but the boy only looked between Tony and Steve again. Waiting, Tony realized.

A moment of silence passed.

Two.

"I should probably start checking—"

"Thank you."

Steve paused, his body still partially turned.

Tony cleared his throat. Tried to ignore the small smile that spread across Peter's face. "Thank you," he repeated. He didn't bother explaining why, and judging by the smile on Steve's face, he knew that Steve knew he didn't need any further explanation, either.

"Learned from mistakes," Steve replied. "I wasn't going to let another person slip through the cracks." He gave a nod to Tony, then to Peter. "There's still work to do."

Peter straightened. "Right," he said. He looked up at Tony, the smile fading from his face. "I was following someone before," he explained, and he lifted his hands in defense, adding quickly, "I know I was supposed to stay out of trouble, but there was something _incredibly _off about this guy." He gestured at the end of the bridge. "When the police started clearing pedestrians out, everyone got off. Except for him. He was watching the whole thing—I know it."

"Did he know _you _were watching _him_?" Tony asked.

"I wore the helmet you gave me," Peter replied. "So he wouldn't know it was me. But I don't think he saw me either way." He pressed his lips together. "And he got off just a few minutes before the explosion happened. Like he knew when the whole thing was going to blow."

"Why wouldn't he just avoid the bridge entirely?" Steve asked.

Peter furrowed his brow. "He was watching the police," he said. "Like he was figuring out how many people were present." Peter looked back up at Tony. "The thing is, though, he went to a building. He might have been meeting someone. And then the bridge blew up after that."

"We found the person who had released the rocket," Tony said slowly. He turned back towards his carriage. Pepper, Natasha, and the captive must have still been in there. "But he said he wouldn't talk."

"That doesn't make sense," Steve said. When Tony turned back around to Steve, he added, "If you caught the only other person in Stark Industries who could have released the rocket, then all evidence would immediately point to him."

"But he said he wasn't talking…" Tony's voice drifted.

"So that means that there's more people involved," Peter finished. "So the person I was following could have been a part of the whole thing. A partnership." Peter's eyes brightened. "And I know where he is. He couldn't have left the building, right?"

"We don't know that for sure," Steve said slowly. "But it's worth a shot. At the very least, the culprits can't be too far off from that place if they left."

"Then we have another place to search," Tony replied. He turned to Peter, feeling both a mixture of dread and pride at the way Peter squared his shoulders. "And I suppose you're the only one who knows where this building is."

"Which means I have to lead you guys," Peter nodded, tugging on his helmet. Even through the helmet, Tony could hear the grim smile in Peter's voice as he added, "It's not too far off. And I don't think bringing the carriages will be a good idea—they'll hear you if you do."

"Of course," Tony muttered. Then, turning to Steve, he added, "But first, some of your men will have to take in the lunatic sitting in my carriage."

And when they got to Tony's carriage, Natasha kicked open the door. "Took you long enough," she huffed, climbing down from the carriage with the culprit behind her. The man had his head bowed, but even from where he was, Tony could see his lips moving in some kind of soundless prayer. No prayer could save him now, Tony couldn't help but think as Natasha pushed the man at one of Steve's waiting officers.

"Nice to see that you two are alive," Natasha added, nodding at Steve and Peter. She eyed the space between Steve and Tony and added, "And also nice that you two finally cleared the air."

Before Tony could say anything, Pepper came climbing down from the carriage. "Oh, thank God," she said, when eyeing Steve and Peter's unharmed forms. Then, she took in the mess on the bridge. Her face fell. "Tony…" she started to say.

"I know," Tony said, and Pepper looked at him.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, and just looking at the way Pepper looked at him, Tony had a feeling that Pepper already knew what Tony was going to say.

"The person who did this can't be too far," Tony said. He turned to Peter. "How far away was the building from here?"

"Not too far," Peter replied instantly.

When Tony turned back around to Pepper, her lips were pressed tightly together. "Just you three?" she asked, looking between Tony and Steve and Peter.

"May's got to be back at the house by now," Tony replied. "And she'll need someone to be there. Someone to let her know that we'll be back soon." He looked over at Peter. "Somehow, I don't think she'd be too happy to find out where her nephew is at this hour."

Peter bunched his shoulders together, but he only nodded at Pepper as she looked at him. There was that grim determination again—and Tony couldn't remember when Peter had looked so serious before, not even when Tony had thought he was resigning.

"Alright," Pepper said quietly. Her eyes moved from Peter and then to Tony, her gaze lingering for just a heartbeat longer than Tony anticipated. "Be careful."

Tony nodded, and he thought Pepper was going to say more—or maybe he was going to say more—but no words came out. Instead, Pepper just got up to the carriage—and as Tony closed the door, he only managed to say, "I'll see you in a little bit."

"You better," Pepper replied, and with that, Tony sent the carriage off.

"I'll try to help the police to see if we can get that guy to talk," Natasha said when Tony turned around. She jerked her chin at the partner sitting between two police officers. "But I'll catch up to you three eventually." She patted Tony and Steve's shoulders, and then she looked down at Peter. "Try not to have too much fun without me." And before anyone could say anything, Natasha was already walking towards the policemen.

"Well," Steve said, releasing a sigh, "I guess that answers that."

"What does she mean that she'll catch up to us eventually?" Peter asked, frowning.

"Romanoff's good at tracking down people she knows," Tony replied. "I never bothered asking how."

"Oh."

Despite everything that was going on around them, Tony couldn't help but feel the corner of his lips twitch upwards. "I wouldn't be too worried about her creeping up on you," he replied. "I'd say you have at least a few more days before she starts actually trying to scare you."

"Nice to know," Peter said, and the small smile he gave Tony in return made Tony feel that strange mixture of dread and pride again. A part of him wanted to seat Peter in the carriage with Pepper and have them both riding away, but then Peter put on his helmet, and that vision dissipated. "Are we ready?"

"If you are," Tony replied, but he already knew the answer. He looked at Steve. "And what about you?"

"You already know," Steve answered.

"I did, didn't I?" Tony turned to Peter. "Lead the way."

* * *

Tony knew Peter was fast, but Peter was _fast_.

As Tony and Steve took the streets, Peter jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Tony had watched with some apprehension at first, but Peter's movements in no way were those of an amateur. He never slowed except when to check that Tony and Steve were still on the right track, and even then, Peter's stops were never awkward.

This was Peter's world, Tony realized. A world of quietly flying above others, only noticed when someone chose to look up.

"Any idea how long he's been doing that?" Steve asked, lifting his head to watch Peter's shadow fly past another rooftop.

"Some time now," Tony replied. "He got in to my office that way, I think."

Steve glanced over at Tony. "He got into your office?"

"That's how he returned the watch," Tony replied, enjoying the disbelief in Steve's eyes. This was a different kind of disbelief than the one Steve had been wearing around Tony in the last few years—one that felt more humorous than the pained disbelief before. "He didn't come through the front door, if that's what you were thinking."

Steve let out a low whistle. "Handy/"

"That's one way to put it," Tony replied. He lifted his head again just in time to see Peter come to a stop on one of the rooftops. Peter lifted his arm towards the building directly in front of Tony and Steve.

"So they're in there," Tony said. He looked to Steve. "I don't suppose you'll argue if I break in?"

"I think we're past that point now," Steve replied.

Tony felt the corner of his lips twitch. "Let's get them," he said, and without another warning, he heaved a kick at the door.

"You could have at least checked if it could just open on its own," Steve murmured as Tony turned back around.

"You said I could break in," Tony replied. "So I did." He looked towards where the hinges of the door had splintered. "See?" He jerked his head into the building. "So what are you waiting for?"

Steve shook his head, but he walked towards the house. Tony, still standing in the broken doorway, looked up to see that Peter was starting to clamber down from the rooftop. The boy hit the ground, and before Tony could stop him, came running towards the house.

"Get back on the roof," Tony instructed as soon as Peter reached the doorway.

"What? Why?" Peter asked, and even though his features were covered by the helmet, Tony could imagine the disbelief etched across Peter's face.

"We need a look-out," Tony replied, even though both Peter and he knew that there wasn't too much of a point in having a look-out. "Steve and I will get our guy and be back outside in a minute."

"We've already come this far," Peter protested.

"Exactly." Tony looked towards Steve, who was still waiting in the foyer of the building. He looked back around to Peter and added, "You've already come this far. So I'm telling you to sit this one out."

"But—"

"_Go_," Tony said, nudging Peter backwards. Peter took a half-step back. "We're not going to take another risk where we don't have to."

Peter hovered, and for a moment, Tony thought he was going to argue, but then Peter just said, "Be careful."

"You too," Tony said.

"What is there to be careful of?" Peter asked, adjusting his helmet. "I'm just sitting on a roof."

Tony tried for a smile. "Don't get distracted and start picking pockets now."

Peter let out something that might have been a laugh, but Tony wasn't sure. Then Peter ran for the buildings again.

Tony let out a breath. One less worry, then. At the least.

He turned back around to Steve. "He'll be safe," he said.

"He will," Steve agreed. He pointed up the stairs. "We can check up there."

Tony nodded, and he had only taken a step forward when he heard the spine-chilling click of a pistol from above.

"Well," Quentin said from the stairwell, "_this _is annoying."

* * *

**A/N: **_Three chapters left! Can you guys believe that? _

_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! Lowkey dying because of finals prep, but we carry on!_


	18. EIGHTEEN

**EIGHTEEN. **

Even though he was sitting on the rooftop literally right next to the building that Tony and Steve went into, Peter still felt too far away. He sat as close to the edge as he possibly could, his neck aching at how much he craned to get a glimpse of what was going on inside. So far, everything had been quiet, which Peter assumed was a good thing.

He wished he knew how much time had passed. Peter knew only a few minutes must have gone by, but he felt as though those minutes were stretching into hours. He looked up at the sky. Fully dark now, and Peter couldn't see the stars, even though the street itself didn't have any lights to get in the way.

Peter looked back at the building, tapping his foot against the rooftop. He eyed one of the window ledges on the building. From what he could tell, that room seemed empty—there hadn't been any movement inside. Peter envisioned himself breaking in through that window. He'd still be out of the way—and Tony wouldn't have to know, of course, but Peter would still be in the same building. He'd know what was going on.

Peter nodded to himself. That couldn't hurt. He stood up and was just about to make a running leap forward when suddenly, five figures burst out through the door. Peter ducked immediately, but as he lifted his head over the edge, he found himself wishing that he had broken in sooner, after all.

Because Tony and Steve were both walking out backwards, their arms raised above their heads as three men with pointed pistols came following them. Peter could tell that one of the men was the one he had followed earlier, and the other looked like another accomplice, but the man between them—

"You really couldn't just be satisfied with my performance?" Quentin asked, exasperated. "I thought I put on quite a show."

Peter clamped down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any sound. There were three men. Only Tony and Steve, and Peter wasn't sure if either man carried any weapon at all. Peter could run down there, maybe distract them—

"You're the one responsible for all of this," Steve said, scowling. "Do you have any idea how many people you've hurt? _Killed_?"

"All necessary," Quentin said, waving his pistol. "After Mr. Stark here decided that I wasn't good enough for the company." He smiled. "But I'm not just good enough—I'm _better_."

"No point in arguing with him, Steve," Tony said as Steve opened his mouth. Even from above, Peter could see the steady look in Tony's face as he added, "Quentin Beck is deranged, which is why I fired him in the first place."

"I am _not_—" Quentin's voice rose, but then, as though remembering where he was, he smiled again, this time a little forcefully. "I am _not _deranged," he said. "But I _am_ angry. There's a difference."

"Interesting," Tony said. "Angry happens to be synonymous with _mad_, which would be another word I'd use to describe you."

Peter winced as Quentin's face soured again.

"For someone who's about to die, you're awfully talkative, Mr. Stark," Quentin said, and he let out a shrill whistle. Peter lifted his head to see a carriage pull up beside him, and walking around Tony and Steve, Quentin said, "Get in. And don't think of anything tricky."

Peter watched, his heart sinking as Tony and Steve got into the carriage. Quentin was the last to get in, but before he did, he jerked his head up at the roofs, and Peter practically slammed himself down against the ground to keep himself from being seen. His head spinning and heart hammering in his chest, Peter lifted his head again in time to see the carriage riding off.

_No, no, no, _Peter thought, scrambling to his feet. His feet slammed against the rooftops as he watched the carriage drive away. He imagined Tony and Steve sitting across Quentin and his allies, pistols pointed and ready. The cold air stung Peter's eyes, causing them to water briefly, and for a moment, everything blurred before Peter as he ran. _No, no, no…_

"Come on," Peter whispered to himself. He wiped a fist across his eyes. _Focus. _

He ran alongside the carriage from above, his breath coming out in quick, frantic puffs that dissipated into the air. Peter imagined running all the way to Pepper back at the Stark residence, telling her about what happened—but would the police catch Quentin in time? There was no way. Peter imagined simply shouting for help—but would anyone listen to _him_?

Peter gritted his teeth, quickening his step. No one was going to listen to him. No one was going to care what a scrawny kid from the working sector would say.

So he would have to get Tony and Steve out himself.

Arms fully pumping at his sides now, Peter sped along, leaping over chimney tops and plumes of smoke and smog as the carriage made its twists and turns. Only the glow of the street lamps and the occasional light in a window and the sound of the horse's hooves kept Peter from losing track of the carriage completely, and even then, there were a few instances when Peter thought he had lost the carriage altogether.

But then the streets slowly came into focus—and they suddenly felt more familiar, and then Peter found himself stopping in front of Quentin's apartment building. The carriage rolled to a stop, and Peter watched with bated breath as Quentin shoved Tony and Steve out.

"Up," Peter heard Quentin say with a jerk of his pistol, and he watched the men file slowly into the building. Peter craned his neck for a clue as to what was going on inside—anything—and then he saw a light turn on. Quentin's apartment.

Peter caught a glimpse of Quentin at the window, and then the curtains were roughly pulled closed.

Peter gritted his teeth. They were _right there_. He could get to that window—break in, get Tony and Steve out of there…and then Peter thought of the pistols that Quentin and the other men had been carrying. Peter's blood ran cold at the thought of the pistols firing around him. Could he outrun them?

But Tony and Steve were in there. Tony was in there.

Tony.

Peter closed his eyes. Rested his head against the edge of the rooftop.

"Just be a little faster today," Tony had said earlier that night—had it really been the same night? It felt like ages ago when Tony said those words.

Peter lifted his head.

"Okay," he whispered. He'll be a little faster this time.

Peter stood up, a chill running up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He took in a deep breath. Eyed the slight glow behind the curtains in Quentin's window. He took a step back and—

Peter heard the slam of boots against the rooftop a second before he jumped.

He whirled around, his arms already seized when he came face-to-face with Natasha.

"You're hard to keep up with," Natasha said, brushing a stray red hair out of her face. "But no one outruns me, spider. Also, nice helmet."

"Natasha," Peter said, his voice cracking. He yanked off his helmet. "Thank God."

"Or thank me," Natasha replied, nodding at Peter. "Were you about to break in?"

"Tony's in there," Peter said. "And so is Steve. We have to get them out."

"I figured," Natasha replied. "The police are already notified. They'll have this place surrounded soon."

"But it might be too late by then," Peter protested.

"I know," Natasha said, turning back to the windows. "So I'll go in."

"You mean _we'll _go in."

Natasha looked at Peter. Up until now, Peter had always been standing beside Tony or Steve whenever Natasha was around, and even then, she had been intimidating. But up close, Peter realized that looking at Natasha was what he imagined was like looking at a fox—and perhaps that was just because of Natasha's hair, but the cunning and amused in her green eyes made Peter feel as though he was under some sort of observation, or even worse, some test.

"What?" Peter asked, surprised at how loud his voice was. "Why're you looking at me like that? We're wasting time!"

The edges of Natasha's eyes crinkled, and that was when Peter realized that she was smiling without moving her lips. "For someone who was a little thief, I expected you to have more self-preservation skills," she said, though she didn't seem to say those words to Peter, though more _at _him. "But you keep throwing yourself into situations where the likelihood of getting hurt—or worse—just gets higher and higher. I have to wonder why that is."

Peter's face warmed at the mention of thievery. "I returned the watch," he could only say.

"I know you did," Natasha said. "Which is even more interesting. No self-preservation skills at all." She turned back to the window. "When you don't have those skills, it must mean that you've got something you want to protect—something you'd want to protect more than you'd protect yourself." Abruptly, she stood up, and Peter scrambled up to his feet with her.

"Well," Natasha said, tapping the edge of her boot against the rooftop. "I don't suppose there's any point in me keeping you here, is there?"

Peter shook his head, and this time, Natasha actually smiled—and for once, the smile wasn't sardonic. If anything, it almost looked gentle, but before Peter could gage in it any longer, the woman was already turning back to the window. "When we get out of this, remind me to tell you how to _properly _sneak up on people," she said, and she nodded down at the street below. "I'll go in through the door—you've got the window."

Peter only just had enough time to nod before Natasha leaped down from the rooftop. If she had been anyone else, Peter would have expected Natasha to break something—but like a cat, she only lingered at her landing for a moment before running into the building.

Peter braced his shoulders back. That left him, then.

He set his eyes on the window. Focused on the slightest ruffle of the curtain—and jumped forward.

All Peter registered was the sharp whistle of the wind as he flew past, and then that whistling was replaced by a loud crash and terrible splintering and shattering as Peter hit solid ground. He heard shouts and gasps around him, and then he heard frantic footsteps—a strangled "_Peter_" (_Tony_, Peter thought amidst the chaos)—and then Peter was hoisting himself up on his feet, ears ringing.

He registered Tony's wide eyes first—and for a wild, insane moment, Peter smiled. "Evening, Mr. Stark, Captain Rogers," he said, and then the door swung open just as Quentin—who had been standing in the center of the room—started forward.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," Natasha said, pistol aimed at Quentin's chest. "The police are already on their way. I'd give them about a minute or two before they're running up here." As Natasha walked slowly into the room, Peter made his way for Tony and Steve, who were positioned in front of Quentin's desk.

"Kid," Tony breathed as Peter first set to work on the ropes bound around Tony's wrists. "How—"

"Followed him," Peter said, yanking hard at the ropes. "Told you I was fast." He glanced over his shoulder at the window. "Not my first time doing that, either."

"You're bleeding," Tony suddenly said. "Where's your helmet?"

Almost as soon as Tony said those words, Peter became aware of something wet trickling at the side of his face. His helmet. He forgot. "I took it off." He glanced over at the window again. "It's across this building. I'll get it afterwards."

Before Tony could say anything, a slow, bone-chilling laugh sounded from behind Peter.

"I had a feeling you had some tricks up your sleeve," Quentin said, and it took everything in Peter to keep working at the ropes instead of turning around to look at Quentin. He yanked at the ropes again, and they slipped down to the floor. Peter winced at the skin rubbed raw around Tony's wrists, but Tony was already directing themselves towards Steve. "Didn't you think I was curious, Stark? I _knew _Peter Parker didn't come from one of us."

"And yet who's the one about to be brought into custody?" Steve asked as Tony and Peter grasped the ropes around Steve's wrists.

Peter could almost hear Quentin's smile in his voice when he said, "That's a fair point, Captain, but you can't help me for wondering."

"That's enough, Beck," Natasha said. "Don't want my finger to slip."

"Yes," Quentin mused. "I suppose that wouldn't be ideal."

Peter only just heard the first sharp intake of breath from Natasha when he felt an arm fling him backwards. There were sudden shouts all around him—Tony, Steve, and Natasha's voices rising in a clashing cord as Peter registered that it was Quentin who had yanked him backwards. Peter clawed at Quentin's arm, tried digging his nails into his skin, but the man held fast.

"Not so fast," Quentin said, and his mouth was so close to Peter's ear that Peter could feel his breath. "Don't want to create too much of a hassle, otherwise you might just blow."

"What does that mean?" Natasha asked, her voice level.

"Do you know what's underneath this carpet?" Quentin asked, and Peter felt ice flood into his veins as he shifted his eyes downward. Sure enough, he was standing on the carpet. The landlady had said something about how Quentin had never let her clean the carpet—how there had been something he was using downstairs. Why hadn't they checked the room downstairs?

"It's a simple mechanism, really," Quentin said. "Say that you wanted to get some people out of the way—but you don't want to let them see walking into their deaths. The best idea would be to conceal the trap." Peter looked down at the carpet again. Only now could he register the faint outline of a square right underneath his foot.

"There's something that I've cobbled together since working at Stark Industries," Quentin said. "It's possible to contain a small explosive underneath any surface. But you don't want the explosive going off right away—no, you only want it going off when your enemies are close." Quentin's grip tightened on Peter, causing his lips to part as he tried to search for air. Tony took a frantic step forward, but Quentin added, "But let's say that the explosive was underneath a certain part of surface. Let's say that my enemy just so happened to step on that surface—and with just enough weight, it touches the explosive and…" Quentin didn't have to finish.

"Peter has nothing to do with this, Beck," Tony said slowly. "You don't want him. You want me." He spread out his arms slowly. "So let him go."

"That's awfully noble of you, Stark," Quentin said, "but I know you well enough. Know that you'd find a way out in a few minutes. No…" Quentin lowered his mouth right beside Peter's ear, and Peter knew that Quentin's eyes were trained on Tony when he said, "I'll just walk away, and you'll have to figure out this situation on your own. Or…" Quentin's arm moved from Peter's neck and then to Peter's shoulder. Peter drew in a sharp breath as Quentin nudged him forward just the slightest. "I could just…roll Peter off. But then the explosive would set off, and I would think all of us would be doomed. But especially Peter."

Peter's eyes stung. His heart hammered in his chest—too much, too loud—as he looked again to the faint outline of the plate he must have been so precariously standing on. "Mr. Stark," he said in a small voice.

"Beck, _please_," Tony said, desperation straining his voice. "What do you _want_?"

"Initially? I just wanted to humiliate you," Quentin replied. "Make you realize you were a fool for not seeing what Stark Industries could do."

"So that meant blowing up homes? Killing people?" Steve asked.

Quentin laughed. "That was after I decided that there were better ways to tear down SI from the inside out. Turn people against him. Tear down the Stark legacy." He shifted against Peter, causing him to lurch forward just a little more. Peter held his breath, his foot just barely inching off the plate.

"_Beck_," Tony repeated.

Peter kept his eyes on the plate. If he moved off completely, the whole place would just be another ruin. Another heap of ash and rubble and dead bodies. He closed his eyes. Imagined May probably sitting in her room, waiting anxiously with Pepper for Tony and him to return. Imagined Ned wiping down another countertop, probably wondering when Peter would next visit. Hell, he even imagined that pretty waitress—Michelle—who he had only just met what now felt like years ago.

And then Peter imagined himself back in Tony's office. Quiet. He could imagine moonlight filtering in through the curtains as Tony and he worked away at whatever was next on the blueprints. Some laughter, but mostly quiet. So different from the initial panic that Peter had felt when he first tumbled into the office after pickpocketing the watch…

Something in Peter stilled.

_Pickpocket. _

Keeping himself as motionless as possible, Peter let his eyes rove down to Quentin's shoulders, then down to his breast pockets. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could only just make out Quentin's other pockets—some of which were just close enough for his hand to dip into.

Just close enough.

It would have to be close enough.

* * *

**A/N: **_As always, reviews/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!_


	19. NINETEEN

**NINETEEN. **

_This was how things ended. _

With Peter caught under Quentin's grip, Natasha pointing a pistol, Steve still tied up, and Tony, even with his hands free and even being literally a step away from Quentin and Peer, unable to do anything except meet the sly smile Quentin gave him.

"I'll admit," Quentin said, his hand resting over Peter's shoulder, "I didn't except you to get so sentimental over this boy, Stark." He tilted his head to the side. "You always _did _pride yourself in not having a conscience. Or did you just need another bright little thing to add to your collection?" He gave Peter another sharp jerk, and Tony took another step forward before Quentin lifted a wagging finger.

"Don't get too jumpy, Tony," Quentin said, still smiling. "It's an embarrassing look on you." He smiled over at Peter, and Tony wanted to rip the sneer off the man's face. "Relax—I'm sure you'll find another one. Doesn't take you too long to replace people."

"You're delusional," Tony said, and even though he knew it was a bad idea to insult the person holding everyone captive, he couldn't keep the words out of his mouth. Not when Peter was still in Beck's grip for some reason that wasn't even real. "I fired you because you're _crazy_."

Quentin's face reddened, and leaning forward, he started to say, "I said _don't_—"

"Mr. Stark, please!" Peter cried out, and Tony's blood ran cold at the panic in his voice. "Don't." His wide eyes met Tony's. "I'll be okay."

"For some reason, I can't believe that," Tony replied, clenching his hands into fists as Quentin let out a small laugh. He had always found Quentin's laugh unsettling, but it sounded even worse with Peter still in his clutches.

"A brave one, too," Quentin said, looking at Tony. "But I suppose such bravery is only necessary when you come from the slums." His smile twisted into an ugly sneer as Peter jerked his head to the side. "But bravery can only get you so far. Tell me, Mr. Parker, did you actually think Tony Stark would keep you for as long as he did?"

"Don't you _dare_—" Tony started forward, but Peter shook his head again.

"See? Peter knows it," Quentin said. He tilted his head at Tony. "And I suppose he knows—and you should know by now, too—that your little empire of Stark Industries is about to fall." He cast another grin at Peter, who stiffened. "People will forever see Stark Industries as the company that was responsible for not only the death of one of its employees, but the death of the other poor little workers in the slums. And it's all rather perfect timing, really, considering that these pesky journalists have suddenly grown a conscience in writing about such mundanity." Quentin paused, as though a new thought had come to him—but the awful smile that he gave Tony told him that whatever next words he were about to say was just going to be as taunting as the past ones. "Now, did you know about that when you selected Peter? Did you think that choosing Peter as your newest…ah, protégé, for lack of better word, would garner you some more respect?"

"Do you ever get tired of listening to yourself speak?" Tony gritted out. "Because I am."

"Typical Stark answer." Quentin turned to Peter. "Wouldn't you say?"

"You don't get to talk to him," Tony snapped.

"Why not?" Quentin asked, turning to Tony, but something else caught the corner of Tony's eye. Peter was shaking his head again, but there was something different about him now.

Tony looked at Peter again. He was still shaking his head, but the panic had faded from his face. Instead, Tony recognized the grim, determined set of Peter's jaw as he shook his head again at Tony. Then, as Quentin continued to sneer, Tony watched with bated breath as Peter snuck a hand into Quentin's pocket. He heard the quietest intake of breath from Steve, but when he looked, Natasha's face remained as cool as ever. They knew what was going to happen.

"Finally given up arguing?" Quentin asked, lifting his eyebrows at Tony, and Tony forced his eyes to return to Quentin's face. And right below, Peter was slowly turning over a small circular object in his hand. On one side, Tony could see the Stark Industries logo emblazoned on the metal—the same object that Quentin must have used to knock himself out on the night of the charity gala.

"I think I might be," Tony finally replied. "But I've got the feeling that Mr. Parker's just getting ready to start."

Multiple things happened at once.

The sneer from Quentin's face slid off as Peter jabbed the needle side of the badge into Quentin's leg, Steve shot up to his feet and started hollering at the rest of the police force that must have arrived, Natasha ducked out of the room, and Tony reached for Peter just in time for him to slide away from the plate as Quentin tumbled into his place.

And then Steve's force were clambering into the room, and then Natasha returned into the room, plaster in her hair and wires and the other half of the plate clutched tightly in her hand, and someone was cutting Steve free, but all Tony could actually process was the fact that Peter was trembling right in his arms.

"That was some pick-pocketing," Tony managed to say into Peter's hair.

Peter lifted his head, and his face was so pale, and his body was so cold, but he still gave Tony a shaky smile. "Riskiest pick-pocketing of my life," he replied. He started to turn towards Quentin, and Tony let him. For a moment, the two stared at Quentin's seemingly lifeless form as police men dragged him away.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter asked in a small voice.

"Yes?" Tony looked over at Peter, but the boy's eyes were trained on Quentin's retreating figure. Peter's shoulders had slumped over, all the strength drained out of his limbs so that he looked smaller than ever. And yet, when Peter looked back up at Tony, Tony detected the glimmer of some different strength in his eyes—something small and brief, but there had been something there.

"I don't think I want to pick pockets anymore," Peter replied, and with that, he passed the badge along to Tony.

The badge was smooth in Tony's palm. He held it up so it could catch whatever dim light was left in the room. "How did you know you were going to pull this out?" he asked.

"I didn't."

Tony looked at Peter, but the boy only lifted his shoulders at the floor. "I didn't know what I was going to find," Peter said quietly. "Just that if I _did _find something, then I'd try to use it against Mr. Beck." Digging the toe of his shoe against the floorboards, Peter added in a still softer voice, "I wasn't sure if…" He swallowed. Took a deep breath. A shaky breath that seemed to rattle out of Peter. "I wasn't sure if it would work."

Before Tony could respond, Steve walked back into the room. He was still rubbing his wrists from where the ropes had been tied around the skin, but besides that, Steve only looked a little tired. "Beck's already on his way to the nearest jail, where he'll stay until he goes to trial," Steve said. "You two are free to go."

"No questions? No debriefing?" Tony asked. "I'm surprised."

Steve gave Tony a crooked smile. "You'll be hearing from us, but for now…" His eyes flitted over to Peter and then to Tony and then to the space between the two. His smile faded a little, replaced by instead a sad, knowing look that Tony felt only he could see. "I've got the feeling that you two only want to go home."

_Home_.

"Glad that we can agree on that one thing," Tony replied. He paused and then, clearing his throat, he stuck out a hand. "Thank you." Another beat of silence, and then Tony added, "Steve."

And this time, Steve smiled a real smile—not the sarcastic smile or the sad smile or even the golden boy, Perfect Captain Rogers smile that used to grace Tony's father's office. But the smile Steve wore now actually caused the corners of his eyes to wrinkle into the lightest of lines, and when Steve shook Tony's hand, it was a gentle and warm press of the hand that made Tony think that no, not everything slips through the cracks.

"Peter," Steve said, turning to the boy now. He extended a hand.

For a painstaking moment, Peter's hand didn't move. But then, Tony watched with a sinking heart as he focused on the slight tremble in Peter's hand as he took Steve's. They shook hands once, and Peter dropped his hand back to his side. And as though Peter sensed Tony's eyes on his hand, Peter shifted his hand behind his back, as though that simple movement could conceal the ever-present tremor.

Tony met Steve's eyes, and the way the captain's eyes darkened told Tony that he had caught the shake, too. But all Steve said was, "We'll arrange for a carriage to bring you two home right away." He gestured out the door. "In the meantime, though, I'm sure you'll want to get out of this room."

"Read my mind," Tony replied with forced lightness, and he followed Steve out of the apartment.

Natasha was already waiting in the hallway when the three all stepped out of the rooms. "Long night," she only commented. "And it's just about to get longer. For me, at least." She let out an exaggerated sigh and stretched her arms over her head.

"Nothing you can't handle, I assume," Tony replied.

Natasha smiled lazily at Tony mid-stretch. "Of course," she said and dropped her arms back to her sides. She nodded at the ground. "After ripping out what could have been an explosive, I'm sure I can handle just about anything else that comes my way."

"So that's what it was?" Tony asked. "There was something underneath the floorboards?" He gestured at the bits of plaster that were still stuck in Natasha's hair.

As though noticing the plaster in her hair just now, Natasha batted out some chips before replying, "Something like that. You would probably have a better idea of what exactly Beck had planted underneath our feet, but I suspect that's what he was doing with the apartment below him that the landlady was so confused about."

"How did you know how to dismantle the explosive?" Tony asked.

"Scientific guesswork and common sense," Natasha replied loftily. "Don't act surprised."

"I've given up being surprised a long time ago," Tony said.

"Just what I like to hear." Natasha nodded, satisfied, and turned to Peter. Her expression softened as she added, "But I've got the feeling we're about to get some more surprises out of this one." She lifted her chin at Peter. "How're you feeling, spider?" But before Peter could answer, Natasha turned around and picked something up from one of the bags gathered around the building. Tony only made out the glint of red before knowing that it was the helmet he had made Peter that was being passed along.

"You left this on the rooftop," Natasha said, resting the helmet in Peter's hands. "And I've got the feeling you might want to keep it around." She gave the helmet a single pat before lifting her head up to Tony. "Now, you two will have to excuse me—got some more cleaning up to do after all these boys."

"You mean that _we'll _be cleaning up after _you_," Steve said as Natasha started to go back into the apartment.

"And _that _is why you're the only policeman I'll ever work with," Natasha said over her shoulder. Steve shook his head, but Tony caught a small smile from him as he trailed after Natasha.

Which left Tony alone with Peter.

"Well, then," Tony said, turning to Peter. "Shall we?"

Peter only nodded.

* * *

The air was cold enough for Tony to see his and Peter's breaths, but neither of them wanted to go back inside with all the rest of the policemen. The carriage was yet to be pulled forward, and the night was darker than ever—so dark that if it hadn't been for the lights inside the apartment building behind them, Tony doubted he would see Peter at all.

"How are you feeling?" Tony asked at last, turning to Peter.

"I'm fine," Peter replied quickly—too quickly, and Tony knew it was too quickly because he knew how often he would respond in the same manner when things were not at all fine. But Peter tried again. "I'm just tired."

"Just tired," Tony repeated.

Peter nodded again, looking down at the cobblestoned road.

Tony looked to the road with Peter. He waited. And when Peter didn't add anything on, Tony said, "You mentioned that you didn't know if your plan would work before." Even though Tony and Peter were the only ones outside, Tony couldn't help but keep his voice quiet—as though if his voice got any louder, it would scare Peter away. Or make him shrink further into himself. "That must have been difficult."

Peter loosed a curl of foggy breath. "It was." The words sounded like a surrender.

"But you still did it." Not a question.

"I just knew that we needed to stop Mr. Beck," Peter replied. He tucked his hands into his pockets, and Tony suddenly became painfully aware that Peter didn't have any thicker clothes on. He must have lost his jacket in the fray. "It didn't matter how it would happen. Just that it did."

Tony watched Peter carefully. Noticed the sudden tightness in Peter's shoulders right before Peter whispered, "I was _scared_." Even with his words so soft, Tony detected the crack in Peter's voice. "I really thought…" He turned to Tony, wide-eyed. "I didn't think I would be. I didn't want to be. But I was."

And Tony watched as Peter's shoulders started to shake, and Tony knew that it had nothing to do with the actual cold air, but still, Tony took off his own coat and before Peter could protest (because Tony knew he would), he set it over the boy's shoulders. Adjusting the coat over Peter's frame, Tony said, "There is nothing wrong with being scared. I'd be worried if you weren't."

Peter looked up at Tony. "Mr. Stark—" He attempted to shrug off Tony's coat, but Tony only shifted the coat back over Peter.

"Keep it on," Tony said. "Your aunt wouldn't be pleased if you caught a cold." That being said, Tony couldn't help but think, May probably wouldn't be pleased to find out what her nephew had been doing all night. But that would be a different problem to tackle—hopefully in the morning.

Clearly thinking the same thing, Peter said, "I don't think a cold is May's biggest worry right now."

"Maybe not," Tony conceded. "But I'm trying to minimize the damage." He tried for a smile, but Peter didn't return it. Tony let his hands swing by his sides. "Peter," he said. "Tell me what you're thinking about. I can't read your mind—as much as I might pretend to."

That didn't get a smile, either.

But then Peter said, "I'm thinking that…" He hesitated and then, drawing Tony's coat around him closer, Peter asked, "Nothing's going to be the same, is it, Mr. Stark?"

Tony looked at Peter. His face was still pale, but the slightest tinge of pink had touched his nose and the tips of his ears and his cheeks. All evidence of the cold, but the slight color was still something that Tony found some relief in. "Nothing has been the same since a long time ago," Tony said. And at Peter's confused expression, Tony added, "Since you crashed into my office." He nodded at Peter. "Whether you know it or not, things have been changing ever since…" He took in Peter's slowly raising eyebrows. Of course, _now _the boy was listening. Tony cleared his throat. "Ever since you. And I was scared too. Then. Now. That something might happen. To you." The words came out of Tony as though they were being forced out—because they really _were _being yanked slowly out of him in both the strangest and most relieving way possible.

"Not nearly the same as what you're feeling, of course," Tony quickly said, turning away from Peter. "Not nearly the equivalent of risking your life—but when you did…" Tony shot a quick look at Peter. "I was afraid, too."

There was a small silence between them.

And then, Peter asked, "Afraid for a pickpocket?"

"Maybe," Tony replied, and to his relief, a carriage started to pull up in front of them. "But moreso, afraid for one of the brightest people I've ever met." With that, he pulled open the carriage door and gestured inside. "Well?" he asked. "What are you waiting for?"

"Do you mean that?" Peter blurted. "Before we get in—did you just mean that? What you just said?"

Tony looked at Peter. At the surprise etched across Peter's face and the genuine pink that bloomed in his cheeks that Tony knew had nothing to do with the cold.

"I suppose I did," Tony replied at last, and he was surprised to find that his own face felt uncharacteristically warm. And then he jerked his head into the carriage. "Now, come on—we'll freeze out here."

And this time, Peter smiled before walking forward. "Yes, Mr. Stark."

* * *

The carriage ride back to the house was long. And quiet.

Tony watched the apartments and houses roll by his window as the carriage sped over cobblestones. He imagined Pepper and May probably still waiting and pacing around the whole house, checking the windows every so often for a carriage to come to the door, and a part of him relaxed at the idea of finally going home.

But at the same time, Tony already felt mostly relaxed—because Peter's head was resting on his shoulder.

The boy had fallen asleep, Tony's coat still wrapped around him.

Tony smiled at the moon.

* * *

**A/N: **_One more chapter left!_


	20. TWENTY

**TWENTY. **

Peter woke up to something warm and heavy sliding off his front. Then he became aware of the crick in his neck, and then he became aware of the warmth at the top of his head. Peter blearily opened his eyes and just barely shifted his head so that he could make out Tony's sleeping face. For a moment, Peter was tempted to go back to sleep, but then he registered the Stark mansion outside, all of its windows still alight with the glow of lamps turned on by, Peter knew, Pepper and May.

"Mr. Stark," Peter whispered. He shook Tony's arm. "We're here."

Tony opened his eyes. He blinked a few times and, focusing on Peter, Tony said almost accusingly, "My neck hurts."

"So does mine," Peter replied.

"Your fault," Tony said, stretching his arms in front of himself. "If you hadn't fallen asleep, I wouldn't have, either."

"Sorry," Peter said, but when Peter started to give Tony's coat back, he shook his head and pushed it back into Peter's hands. "It's only a minute to the door," Peter said, trying to hand it back to Tony.

"It suits you," was all Tony said, and before Peter could argue any further, Tony nodded at the door. "Now go on, don't keep us in in here any longer than we have to be."

Peter slung the coat over his shoulders and turned around to look at Tony again before opening the door. Tony's expression had softened, replaced now by a look Peter could only think was one mixed with amusement and something else. Something else that made Tony smile slightly in the way he did now. Peter turned back to the door and, smiling to himself, pushed it open.

The mansion was quiet when the two walked in at first. Although they didn't speak, Peter and Tony moved in synchronization. Peter walked alongside Tony up the stairs, past the bedrooms, and into Tony's study. Almost in unison, they flopped down on the couch, and the only things they could actually hear in the room was the dim humming of the lightbulbs and both Peter and Tony's deep breaths.

Finally, Tony said, "We both stink."

Peter looked at Tony, at his tired eyes and the dirt and soot on his clothes and the ash in his hair, and Peter knew he must have looked at least just as bad, with the same ash and soot and dirt. "We do," Peter agreed, and before he could stop himself, a quiet giggle escaped his lips.

And then the corner of Tony's lips started twitching, and then he was giggling a little, too—because there was no other way to explain how Peter and Tony were now laughing like mad men, tears coming to their eyes and their faces pinking from the sudden exertion.

Peter pressed a hand against his stomach to keep himself from laughing any more, and just as he did so, the door to the study flew open. Peter lifted his head just in time to see Pepper and May practically fly into the room, words spilling out of their mouths in a jumbled mess, and then Peter felt himself getting yanked out of the couch, and he was suddenly in May's arms as she held him tightly against him.

"Peter Benjamin Parker," May said, squeezing Peter fiercely, "Don't you_ ever _go off like that without telling me _ever _again." She pulled away from Peter for just the briefest moment, her wide brown eyes searching Peter's face, and she lifted a hand to his forehead. "And you're _bleeding_."

"It's stopped," Peter defended, but looking at May, Peter felt something crumble apart and he amended, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"You had me so _worried_," May said, clutching Peter's hands. "When Pepper told me—" But when Peter turned to Pepper, he found that Pepper, a bit like May, looked more frenzied than anything else.

"What _happened_?" Pepper was saying, throwing her hands in the air. "What—why is there blood? Why are your wrists..." She pushed her hands towards her face and shook her head. "I swear, Tony…" But Peter didn't get to find out what exactly Pepper was going to swear, because when Tony stood up, a small smile already was on his lips.

"For a minute, I thought you were actually worried about me," Tony said, and May suddenly tugged on Peter's hand. When Peter turned to his aunt, she jerked her head towards the door, and Peter gratefully followed her out. When he looked over his shoulder, Tony was already slowly pulling Pepper's hands away from her cheeks. Peter looked away quickly and had the feeling that Tony and Pepper would be having their own conversation.

In the meantime, Peter followed May into her room. The minute they were alone, May wrapped Peter into another hug—and this time, Peter let his head fall against May's shoulder, grateful for the sudden support. He took in a shaky breath, feeling it rattle around his chest before he looked up at May, warm tears already springing behind his eyes.

"Oh, Peter…" May brought a hand to Peter's cheek. "What happened?"

"A lot," Peter replied. He swallowed. "Mr. Beck was alive. Everyone was right—he was responsible for everything."

"And you didn't want that?" May asked quietly.

"Is it bad that I didn't?" Peter whispered. He looked down at the floor. "Even while everything was going on, I was hoping that the evidence at Beck's apartment wasn't really his." He closed his eyes briefly, opened them again. "But then he took Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers…and he…" Peter squeezed his eyes shut again, remembered the hold of Quentin's arm around his neck. As though reading his mind, May's hand slowly moved down to the side of Peter's neck. A brief pain flared where May's fingers tracked over what Peter knew could only be a bruise, and when he opened his eyes, May's brows were furrowed together.

"Did he do this to you?" May whispered.

Peter swallowed. "He made a trap in that place. He held me so that if I stepped away from him, then the whole place would blow." He forced his eyes up at May and gave her a wobbly smile. "It…I…" He took in a deep breath. "I picked his pocket. Got him to take my place before he could do anything."

"Peter…" Tears rimmed May's eyes, but she wiped them roughly away.

"I had to do something," Peter said. "But May, I was _scared_." His voice cracked. "And some part of me feels like…" He pressed his lips together. "This whole time, I've been wondering if I really belonged at Stark Industries. And I didn't use brains to stop Mr. Beck. I just did the same thing that got me here in the first place." He cast his eyes downward. "Nothing's changed."

"Peter Benjamin Parker."

Second time May was using Peter's name now, Peter noted as he met May's eyes. She rarely did that, but right now, the look on May's face was so fierce, so defiant, that Peter resisted the urge to tell her that.

"Don't tell me nothing's changed," May said. "Because look at you now." She reached up to brush back Peter's hair. "Because right now, I can tell you that all I see is a young man who just happened to save Mr Stark and Captain Rogers from a certain fate—at least, from what I can tell." She dropped her hand from Peter's head and cupped his chin. "You were brave. Fast. And you picking Beck's pocket—why did you do it?"

"I was just looking for a distraction," Peter replied slowly. "To stop Beck. I just wanted him to stop."

"Exactly," May said. She smiled at Peter, and Peter suddenly felt like a child again after coming back home on a bad day. "That requires strategy. Brainpower. So don't you dare say you didn't use your brain, because you did. And you used everything else you had." She shook her head. "And only an idiot would say otherwise." Her smile turned sly as she added, "And for some reason, Tony Stark doesn't strike me as an idiot. At least, not these days." She patted Peter's shoulders. "Or, at the very least, _I'm _not an idiot—so can you listen to your aunt this one time?"

"I always listen to you," Peter protested.

"Well, then, listen harder on this one," May said, kissing Peter on the cheek. She drew back. "And also listen to me when I say that I think it's time for you to take a bath."

Peter let out a small laugh. "That sounds like a good idea," he said, relieved.

"Just one of my any," May replied, and Peter couldn't help but agree.

* * *

After Peter dried off from what he was convinced was the best bath he had ever taken, he started to make his way towards his room. He passed Tony's study briefly, where Pepper and Tony were still standing at the center of the room. Peter paused, and making sure that his steps were as quiet as possible, he backtracked so that he could just make out Tony and Pepper through the slightly ajar door.

Their hands were clasped together, their foreheads pressed against each other, and Peter could make out the gentlest of smiles on both their faces.

Peter took a small step back. He would leave them to it.

* * *

When Peter woke up, the sky was brighter than it had been in a long time. He sat up and stretched, wincing at his sore muscles. Still, he pushed himself out of the bed and looked around for clothes to wear. Once he was decent, he pushed open his door—only to find that Tony was already on the other side.

"Mr. Stark," Peter said, surprised. He paused. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long enough for you to feel guilty," Tony replied. He cleared his throat and nodding at Peter, asked, "Can I come in for a minute?"

"Of course," Peter said, hastily stepping aside.

Tony strolled in and took out a newspaper. "Catch," he said, throwing the stack of papers at Peter. Plucking it out of the air one-handed, Peter backed only a few steps before making out the printed words on the newspaper.

"_Quentin Beck Responsible for Recent Attacks—Trial to Follow_," Peter read aloud. He looked down at the picture of Quentin's face splashed across the front page. He had woken up from the pin, apparently, and he looked none too pleased. Quentin's eyes were a little too wild even for the camera. Peter looked up at Tony. "That's good," he said.

"Keep reading," Tony said, leaning against one of the windows.

Peter obediently looked back down at the newspaper. His eyes skimmed over the introduction to the attacks in the working sectors, then down to the event of the charity gala, and then to the eventual apprehension of Quentin Beck. Peter could feel Tony's eyes trained on him, and for a moment, Peter still didn't know what Tony was waiting for until Peter caught sight of his own name at the bottom of the paper.

"Peter Parker, 17, was one of the many to foil Mr. Beck's plot," Peter read aloud, warmth rising in his cheeks. "Newly made employee of Stark Industries and personal protégée of Tony Stark…" Peter whipped his head up, but Tony waved a hand. The message was clear: _keep reading_.

Peter looked back down and, his head spinning, continued, "This young man not only saved Mr. Stark and Captain Steve Rogers, but he also brought this villain to the justice he deserved." Peter lifted his head again from the paper. "How—"

"You didn't think Steve would take all the credit, did you?" Tony asked with a crooked smile. "Natasha's name is in the paper somewhere, too—she'll be both pleased and annoyed, I expect. She doesn't like fame, but she certainly doesn't like it when people take credit for her work, which has happened more times than she'd like." Crossing his arms over his chest, Tony nodded at Peter. "How does it feel, seeing your name in print?"

"It's…" Peter looked at Tony. "I didn't expect to have my name in the paper at all." He looked back down at the paper. "And…'personal protégée to Tony Stark'?"

Tony pocketed his hands. "Decided to make the statement official," he replied. "It's been a long time coming, but here we are." He looked at Peter. "That is, unless you would rather not…?"

"No," Peter said quickly, dropping the newspaper on the bed. "No, Mr. Stark—this is…" Warmth gathered behind Peter's eyes. "This is…" He wiped at his eyes furiously and blinking as fast as he could, he lifted his chin at Tony. "Are _you _sure?" He gestured at himself. "I'm just a…" His voice faltered as Tony lifted his hand.

"Let me stop you right there," Tony said, and he walked forward until he was practically face-to-face with Peter. "I want you to look at me."

Peter forced himself to look up at Tony.

"There's nothing _just_ about you," Tony said quietly. Seriously. He raised a hand, almost hesitantly, and then he tapped Peter's forehead. It was a light touch, but Peter could feel it even after Tony dropped his hand. "There never was."

It took a moment for Peter to find his voice. His eyes burned, and for a moment, Tony swam out of focus. Clearing his throat, Peter shifted his gaze to the papers. Quentin seemed to glare at him out of the pages. And then, quietly, Peter said, "What happened yesterday…" He looked up at Tony, and only then did the look on Tony's face seemed to sadden.

"Is that going to happen a lot?" Peter asked.

At first, Tony didn't say anything. Peter could almost see the thoughts clinking together in Tony's head, could almost see the gears working, and then Tony said, "I can't promise anything." He gestured to the newspaper. "I _want _to say that Beck was just an oddity, but I've got the feeling that Beck won't be the only one to try to attack innocent people." He paused and, catching Peter's eyes, Tony added in a quieter tone, "But I also remember a certain someone telling me that we can't always know for sure what's going to happen." He tugged another something out of his back pocket and handed it to Peter—a familiar roll of blueprint.

Peter didn't unravel it. "The suit," he said.

"_Suits_," Tony said, and when Peter lifted his eyebrows, he nodded at the blueprint. "Take a look."

Peter slowly unraveled the blueprint and felt something stick in his throat. Tony's design for his suit had been complete a long time ago, but now, standing next to that diagram, was another design for a different suit with familiar red and black webbing-like patterns. One identical with Peter's helmet.

Peter looked back up at Tony.

"I _also _happen to remember a certain someone telling me that we shouldn't be asking ourselves what we _could _have done, but what we're going to do once we finish with those," Tony said. He tapped the blueprint. "I'm not going to tell you that bad things aren't going to happen, Peter. But a part of me thinks that you already knew that." He let his hand rest on the blueprint and, looking at Peter again, Tony added, "But I _can _promise that at least next time, we'll be more prepared."

Peter's eyes skimmed down to the blueprint. Then back to Tony. And for a moment, Peter could only think of how he must have looked like when he first ran into Tony on the street on the first night. And how Peter himself had looked at Tony with the giddiness of not only have picked his pocket and also just standing so close to the legendary Tony Stark. And how Peter had practically flown back to his apartment with May, his heart in his throat because he had just stepped into the world of Stark Industries.

"What if you fly?" May's voice whispered in Peter's voice again, and when Peter met Tony's eyes, he had the feeling he wasn't the only one who was going to fly.

And then Peter felt a small smile creep to his lips, and then Tony was smiling, and then Peter felt the rush of flight even with his feet still on the ground. And that full flight started with Peter's first question:

"So where do we start?"

* * *

**A/N: **_Thank you to all of you beautiful people who stuck with this story. I was super insecure about releasing this story because I wasn't too sure how a historical au would fly in the community, but I'm happy to have seen readers pick up the story over the course of the last few months. Updating this story was truly one of the things I looked forward to while working through the fall semester this year. _

_This is also the first major multi-chap. fic that I've written in a very, very long time, so it was so encouraging to see people really respond to this work. Thank you guys so much. _

_katierosefun (Caroline)_

_ps: and if ya'll are still looking for some more Tony and Peter fluff, I've just uploaded a holiday fic which will be updated daily until Christmas! But if that's not your thing, still-love ya'll 3000!_


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